We talked about his kids, about my business, normal stuff. Then he mentioned that our parents were coming to visit him next weekend, asked if I would consider meeting them, just for an hour, in a public place. I felt my chest tighten.
I’m not ready for that, Michael. He pushed a little, but backed off when I got quiet. After we hung up, I called Melissa.
We had an emergency session that night. She helped me realize I was afraid of seeing them. Not because I hated them, but because I still craved their approval, still wanted them to love me, still wanted to be enough.
It was pathetic, but it was true. I cried for an hour in her office. The next day, Michael texted again, said our mom was crying all night after he told her I wouldn’t meet them, said our dad was talking about driving to my city anyway.
I felt panicky, blocked Michael’s number immediately. Then I called my assistant and told her I was working from home for the week, ordered groceries for delivery, basically hid in my apartment like a scared kid. On Wednesday, the doorman called up, said there was a couple asking for me, wouldn’t give their names.
I knew instantly, told him I wasn’t accepting visitors. Five minutes later, my phone rang from an unknown number. I let it go to voicemail.
It was my dad. Emma, we drove eight hours to see you, his angry voice said. You’re being childish.
We deserve a chance to explain. I deleted the message and turned off my phone. Thursday morning, I woke up to someone pounding on my door.
I froze in bed, heart racing, checked the peephole. It was them, my parents, standing in my hallway like they had any right to be there. Emma, please, my mom’s voice came through the door.
We just want to talk to you. We know you’re in there. My dad added, we love you.
We’re sorry. I didn’t open the door. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, shaking.
Eventually they left. I called building security immediately, told them not to let those people up again. The guard sounded concerned, asked if I needed police.
I said no, just don’t let them up. Then I called Melissa. She came over on her lunch break, brought me a sandwich and sat with me while I cried, told me I had every right to set boundaries, that I didn’t owe them a meeting, that what they were doing was harassment, not reconciliation.
After she left, I got an email from Michael. He was furious, said I’d humiliated our parents, said they were staying in a cheap motel they couldn’t afford because they were so desperate to see me, said his wife needed surgery next month and they were hoping I could help, said I was being cruel. I didn’t respond.
Friday morning, I decided I needed to leave town for a while, booked a flight to visit my friend Rachel in Portland. She’d been one of the people who helped me when I was homeless. Let me crash on her couch for a week when I had nowhere else to go.
I trusted her completely. I was throwing clothes in a suitcase when my phone rang. Unknown number again.
I ignored it. Ten minutes later, my doorman called, said there was a woman downstairs having what looked like a medical issue, said she was asking for me by name, claimed to be my mother. I felt sick, told him to call an ambulance if she needed help, but I wasn’t coming down.
He sounded uncomfortable but agreed. I finished packing and headed downstairs an hour later, checked the lobby carefully before entering. No sign of them.
I felt relieved but also weirdly guilty. The doorman gave me a strange look as I passed, told me the ambulance had come, that the woman had been having chest pains, that she’d been taken to Memorial Hospital. I nodded and hurried out to my waiting Uber.
At the airport, I got another call from Michael. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up. Mom had a heart attack.
He was crying. She’s in surgery. This is your fault for stressing her out.
I hung up on him, called Melissa instead. She answered immediately. I told her what happened, asked if I was a terrible person.
Emma, listen to me, she said firmly. You are not responsible for your mother’s health. This feels like another manipulation tactic.
Get on your plane and take care of yourself. I did. Spent the weekend with Rachel, told her everything.
She remembered when my family abandoned me, remembered how broken I’d been. She was furious on my behalf. They don’t deserve a minute of your time, she said, pouring me another glass of wine.
Not after what they did to you. It felt good to have someone so firmly in my corner. Sunday night, I got an email from my dad.
My mom was stable, had a stent put in, would be released Tuesday. The email ended with, she’s asking for you. Don’t you think you’ve punished us enough? I showed Rachel.
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. Told me this was textbook guilt tripping. I knew she was right, but part of me still felt responsible.
I flew home Monday. Found flowers outside my apartment door. The card said, please call us.
We’re staying at the Holiday Inn until Wednesday. No apology. No acknowledgement of boundaries.
Just another demand. I threw the flowers in the trash chute. Tuesday morning, I got a text from an unknown number.
It was a photo of my mom in a hospital bed, looking pale and small. The message said, she might not have much time left. Do you really want to live with this regret? I blocked the number.
Called Melissa. She suggested I take a social media break. Change my number.
Maybe even stay with a friend for a while. I agreed. Called my assistant and told her I’d be working remotely for two weeks.
Packed another bag. Before I could leave, my doorman called again. Said there was a young woman downstairs asking for me.
Said she had a small child with her. Said she claimed to be my sister-in-law. I felt cornered.
These people wouldn’t stop. I told the doorman to send her up. Decided to face this head on.
The woman who knocked on my door looked exhausted. Had dark circles under her eyes. Was holding a sleeping toddler against her shoulder.
I’m Jenny, she said quietly. Michael’s wife. I came alone because I wanted to talk to you without family drama.
I let her in reluctantly. Offered her water. She accepted gratefully.
Jenny put her sleeping daughter on my couch, tucking a blanket around her. Then she sat at my kitchen table and started talking. I only learned about you three years ago, she admitted.
Michael told me you ran away at 17. Cut contact with the family. I always thought it was strange but never pushed.
Hearing your podcast was a shock. I confronted him, and he finally admitted the truth. I just listened.
Not sure what to believe anymore. Jenny seemed sincere. I’m horrified by what they did to you.
She continued. I insisted Michael reach out, but I had no idea they were going to ask you for money. I’m embarrassed and angry about that.
Yes I do need surgery for a thyroid condition, but we have insurance. Your parents are the ones in financial trouble, not us. I asked her why she’d come.
She looked me straight in the eyes. You deserve to know the whole truth, she said. Your parents have been telling everyone you abandoned the family.
That you were mentally unstable. That you stole money from them before disappearing. That they spent years looking for you.
All lies to cover what they’d done. I felt like I’d been punched. How do you know this is true? She pulled out her phone.
Showed me Facebook posts from years back. My mom asking for prayers to find her troubled daughter. My dad claiming I’d taken their savings before running away.
Posts about hiring private investigators. About checking homeless shelters. All carefully crafted to make them look like victims.
All dated years after they’d abandoned me. Jenny apologized for being part of it, even unknowingly. Said she’d confronted my parents too.
That they’d admitted everything to her when she threatened to tell the whole family the truth. That they were desperate now because their lies were unraveling. That my podcast had people asking questions they couldn’t answer.
Her daughter woke up then. A cute little girl with curly hair. This is Lily, Jenny said softly.
She’s three. I have another daughter on the way. I want my children to know they’re aunt.