Wrong

My mom shared a story with me the other day about a friend from AA. The friend’s son is married, and the wife openly dislikes her partner, says really awful things about him, doesn’t want him around, and doesn’t want her kids around him either. Despite that, the friend keeps begging to spend time together and continues including the partner. Eventually—around Thanksgiving, I think—the partner had a breakdown. After sitting with it for a while, my mom finally spoke up and said that no one had really stopped to think about how the partner must feel being so clearly unwanted and pushed aside. Her friend admitted she’d never thought about it that way.

What struck me wasn’t just the story, but how involved my mom was in it—how easily she could see the emotional cost, how willing she was to advocate for someone else’s pain. And yet, in a similar situation with my own father, the narrative somehow still exists that I’m the bad one. I guess people see what they want to see, and compassion can be selective. So I listened, said nothing, like I usually do—because no matter what I say, it always seems to be wrong anyway.

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