A personal story about family wounds, healing, and learning to love with boundaries. If you feel that your heart needs this, keep reading! 

Have you ever felt like your kids betrayed you and broke your heart? I surely had, and today I want to share my story with you. Why? Because I think there are many parents who need to face this struggle, and most of us are not prepared for it.

I want to tell you more about what happened to me and how I managed to sort things out. This was not an easy journey. It was the journey of a mother who still had to learn a lot, and I assume this is something quite relatable for many of you.

Maybe I also broke my mother’s heart, and now that I know how this felt for her, I want to try to make things easier for other people. Maybe my text is not that deep, philosophical, or introspective, but this is my story, and sharing it gives me a feeling of freedom that I haven’t felt in a very long time.

This is a very personal story, so please bear with me and excuse any phrasing that might sound improper. It was a rollercoaster for me to write all of this! So, here we go.

The perfect storm

Last spring, I thought I had it all figured out, but was this true? Bill and I had just settled into our retirement rhythm, and it was wonderful. We were finally able to enjoy a good retirement life. You know what I am talking about. Morning coffee on the porch, afternoon walks with Maple, our beautiful pup, and evenings planning our next adventure. Do you know how that feels after thirty-five years of teaching teenagers?

But things were not so perfect as I thought they were. The call came on a Tuesday. I remember it so vividly: the smell of maple syrup on my fingers and the morning light peeking through the blinds. Greg’s voice was tight, formal, not the warm tone I’d grown accustomed to since he became a father himself. My heart was as tense as his voice. Was I ready to hear what he wanted to tell me?

When your kids say, “We need to talk,” it’s rarely about good news. But I wasn’t prepared for what came next. Apparently, within the week, all three of my kids discussed and concluded that I was “too involved,” “overwhelming,” and, this one still stings, “suffocating their independence.”

We had this talk in Emma’s living room. She is my middle child, whom I thought I was closest to, and she was the one leading the charge. Replaying this scene in my head reminds me of how my heart broke that evening. Jake, my baby at twenty-eight, nodded along like a bobblehead. Even Greg, usually my voice of reason, sat silent while his siblings outlined my apparent crimes.

The list was long and detailed, as if they’d been recording my wrongdoings for years. I dropped by Emma’s apartment unannounced (twice, maybe three times; who’s counting?). I had “opinions” about Greg and Billie’s parenting choices. I texted too much, called too often, and somehow managed to make everything about me.

Listening to my children systematically dismantle my mothering was something that created a crack inside my chest. These were the babies I’d rocked through fevers, the toddlers whose scraped knees I’d kissed, and the teenagers whose hearts I’d helped mend. And now, they were telling me I am the problem.

The hurt of recognition

The worst part? Some of what they said was true. Since I retired, I have been dropping by Emma’s place more often. But you know, things like these happen when you don’t have a routine. I can’t say I was missing lesson plans and parent conferences, but without them, I found myself with time and a lot of worry on my hands. I had no idea about what I should do, and my heart told me that getting close to my kids was the best thing. Foolishly enough, I listened to it.

Emma was struggling with her new job, and I wanted to help. But apparently, showing up with homemade soup and a willingness to listen had crossed some invisible line. These were the boundaries nobody told us about. Our generation lacks when it comes to these invisible lines we need to respect, and it shows.

What else have I done? Oh, I had questioned Greg and Billie’s decision to let their four-year-old have screen time during dinner. For me, this is unacceptable behavior since I consider dinner to be a time when family reconnects. This happened while I was in Portland helping them take care of the home while Billie was pregnant. Unfortunately, my “helpful observation” felt like criticism to them.

And yes, I did text Jake daily. Sue me for wanting to know my youngest son was eating something besides ramen and energy drinks. I just wanted to make sure he was ok, and I was not aware of how annoying this might have seemed to him.

But I felt betrayed, and my heart shrank. My kids took all of my care and love and twisted it into something ugly. I felt like they made my caring into a character flaw. This was a new feeling because this is not your usual betrayal. If you have ever had to struggle with this, you know very well what I am talking about.

That night, right after the “big talk,” I remember I stayed on my back porch long after Bill had gone to bed, and the only comforting thing in my life remained Maple’s warm weight against my feet. The spring air was soft, the wind was blowing a promise of change, but I was not able to feel it. All I felt were the sharp words of my kids and how they would sting my little heart.

The emptiness

The weeks that followed were some of the loneliest of my life. Do you know how excruciating it feels to constantly think about reaching your kids and not letting yourself do so? I found myself about to grab my phone and text Em about the book I was reading and then stopping. Or I’d start to call Greg to check on the grandkids, then remember I was “too involved.”

Bill tried to be supportive of me, but he had a much different approach compared to mine. “Give them space,” he’d say, as if space was something you could measure and distribute like flour in a recipe.

When I told him, “When do I know when I give them enough space?” he would tell me that this is not something we can know for sure. And he was right. I was very aware of this, but I didn’t want to accept what was going on. My heart was aching for their presence in my life. “They’ll come around,” Bill’s words still echoing in my mind.

I know this might sound weird and intrusive, but I didn’t want to give them space; I just wanted them back. Many parents go through this when kids leave for college, but here I am battling with this long after.

Maybe I was too involved in my job and had no time to process things and realize what was happening. Also, they were visiting pretty often. And I personally left for college, and I was very aware this was a normal part of a young person’s life.

I tried to distract myself, and I joined a reading club, and also, this is how I started gardening. During those months, I had a garden that would have made Martha Stewart weep with envy. This is still a hobby I have today, so I am grateful for that.

The hardest part was the silence. We used to be very close, and now we were no longer talking. They were truly mad at me. No more random texts from Jake about his latest Netflix obsession, no calls from Emma asking for my chocolate chip cookie recipe, and no photos from Gred with my adorable grandkid.

My heart was broken, and I felt totally erased from their lives. All of these years of mothering had been reduced to a list of grievances. This was unfair. I was not able to comprehend how this is real and happening to me right now.

One particularly low evening, it was only me and Maple at home, and I found myself looking through an old photo album. It was a physical one; I had it long before the digital ones became a thing. And honestly, I like the old ones more, as they make me feel closer to the events depicted in the photos. If you are a fan of old-school photo albums, this one is wonderful!

There I was at Emma’s college graduation, bursting with pride. There was Jake’s first apartment, me helping him arrange furniture. Greg and Billie’s wedding, me crying happy tears in the front row. Oh, these memories, how they are tearing my heart apart now. I was missing my children, and I had no idea what to do next. How was I able to redeem my mistakes now?

When I went to bed, the only question I had in my mind was, “When did I stop being the hero of their stories and become the villain?” These were the thoughts that were ripping from my flesh piece by piece and not letting me rest. I had to do something; I had had enough.

Am I my mother?

And since we were talking about my broken heart, I can’t skip this part. Mom had been gone for five years, but the simple thought of her produced a spark in my mind. I would say that this was the breakthrough that made me realize something.

You might laugh because now, when I look at my thoughts, I realize it was a simple equation. The solution was right there under my nose, and I was not able to pick it up for such a long time.

During the night, I had all the time in the world to think about my mom and my relationship with her. And guess what? There were lots and lots of similarities between how she treated me and how I am treating my kids. Maybe I’m just a mirror of my mother. Maybe we all are in some way or another.

I remembered being Emma’s age and feeling suffocated by my mother’s constant check-ins. I remembered the way she’d rearrange things in my kitchen when she visited, how she’d offer advice about my marriage that I hadn’t asked for.

A conversation I had with Bill became vivid in my mind. “Your mom means well,” he’d said, “but we need to figure out our own way.” He was talking about setting boundaries with our parents, and he was right. Maybe he was not aware that they are called boundaries, but he had a healthy way of thinking.

This made me realize that my kids were not stomping on my heart out of spite; my children weren’t betraying me. No. They were doing exactly what I and their father taught them: stand up for themselves, set boundaries, and build their own lives. A night full of revelations; what else can I say?

For the last thirty years, my identity had been “Mom.” Being a mother and taking care of your kids completely changes your life and how other people see you. When this is such a present aspect in your life, you will also come to see yourself through the world’s lenses, and this is how you can forget who you are. Yes, I was a mother, but I still was the person I was before that.

Retirement had stripped away my teacher identity, but I still had my role as the indispensable mother. This is how I felt. The system can retire me, but my kids won’t be able to retire me from my motherly role, right?

Loving differently

Since I love to write and I had no idea how to approach the situation, I’ve decided to write an apology letter. I can sound a little bit cheesy, but this was the only way I was able to react back then, so yeah, I started writing it.

Funny enough, the apology letter took me three times to write. And no, I was able to find my words; actually, my words were pouring just like my tears did, but the real problem is that I kept trying to explain myself instead of simply acknowledging the hurt I’d caused.

One thing that I learned all of these years is that when you are wrong, you just need to recognize it, say that you are truly sorry, and then other discussions can happen later. The other person needs to feel that you are sorry.

I acknowledged that I’d overstepped. I admitted that my anxiety about their well-being had sometimes looked like distrust in their judgment. I was now aware of my mistakes, and I wanted them to know that. I told them that I can understand that they want to be treated like the capable adults they are.

Emma called first. “Mom,” she said, and I could hear tears in her voice, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I just needed you to see me as me, not as your project to fix.”

Jake, true to form, sent a meme that said, “Sorry I was mean, but also you were kinda overwhelming, but also I love you.” It was perfect.

Greg took longer, but he finally responded, and he told me that he will come to South Carolina so he can take me and his father out for dinner.

Building new bridges

Recovery isn’t linear, and neither is rebuilding relationships with adult children. These setbacks can appear in any parent-child relationship, and many don’t know how to handle them. The damage can come from both sides, but if you are more ready than I was, this can truly help you mitigate things.

Sometimes I’ve slipped back into advice-giving mode, but I quickly reminded myself that this is not the way. So instead of just jumping and giving all that I have, I’ve learned to ask before offering help.

“Would you like me to share what worked for me, or do you just need me to listen?” has become one of my most-used phrases when interacting with my children. It is not a simple process, but I am trying to do my best. And when I see them responding positively to this, it makes me feel like this is what I should be doing.

I’ve discovered that being less involved doesn’t mean being less loving. In fact, stepping back has allowed me to see my children more clearly. And this is also a good tool to use if you want to see yourself clearly.

I’ve learned that love doesn’t always look like involvement. Sometimes love looks like trust. Now, my relationship with my children is different and, in many ways, better. The betrayal I felt in my heart has transformed into something else entirely: gratitude.

If you want to make your life easier or you are in a harsh place and need some support, you need to read this: Thinking About Moving in With Your Adult Kids? Let’s Talk About It