Thomas snapped at her immediately.
“At least you never have to give this up for nine months.”
Thomas snapped at her immediately.
“Mom. Stop.”
Susan rolled her eyes.
“Oh, relax. She knows I don’t mean anything by it.”
She said them because she believed calling something a joke erased the damage.
I did know.
That was part of the problem.
Susan never said these things because she forgot I was hurting.
She said them because she believed calling something a joke erased the damage.
Thomas confronted her constantly.
“If she can’t laugh, what am I supposed to do?”
Sometimes in front of everyone.
Sometimes later.
She always had an excuse.
“I was trying to lighten the mood.”
Or my personal favorite:
“If she can’t laugh, what am I supposed to do?”
Every argument with Susan became a trial where she appointed herself judge.
I usually left the room.
Every argument with Susan became a trial where she appointed herself judge.
If I got angry, I was dramatic.
If I cried, I proved I was too sensitive.
By the time my birthday came around, I had lowered my expectations.
If I ignored her, she announced that I was giving her the silent treatment.
