But only if you want that too. No pressure. No guilt.
Just an open door if you ever choose to walk through it. After they left, I sat in my apartment for hours. Processing.
Called Melissa again. Told her everything Jenny had said. She wasn’t surprised.
Abusers often control the narrative, she explained. They create alternate realities where they’re the victims. She asked what I wanted to do now.
I honestly didn’t know. That night I got another email from my dad. This one was different.
Angry. Threatening. Said if I’d told lies about them online, they would sue me for defamation.
Said they had proof I’d stolen from them. Said they’d go to the media with their side if I didn’t take down the podcast and issue a public apology. Said they expected financial compensation for the damage to their reputations.
I forwarded it to Melissa, then to my lawyer Marcus. He called me immediately. This is empty threatening, he assured me.
Truth is an absolute defense against defamation. Save everything but don’t respond. I’ll handle it if they actually file anything, which I doubt they will.
People who are actually going to sue don’t usually announce it first. The next day I got a call from Michael. I let it go to voicemail.
He sounded panicked. Emma, Jenny told me she visited you. Our parents are furious.
They’re saying terrible things about her now too. I’m scared they’re going to try something desperate. Please call me back on Jenny’s phone, not mine.
I didn’t know what to believe anymore. Called Marcus again. He suggested meeting Michael and Jenny somewhere public, with him present as my lawyer, just to hear them out.
I agreed reluctantly. We set up a meeting at a restaurant near Marcus’s office for the next day. They showed up on time.
Both looked terrible, stressed, exhausted. Jenny had a bruise on her arm she kept trying to hide. Michael couldn’t make eye contact.
I’m Marcus, Emma’s attorney, he said as we sat down, which made Michael flinch. But we sat down, ordered coffee, and they started talking. The story that came out was worse than I’d imagined.
My parents had been living off Michael for years, moving in and out of his house, taking money for emergencies, watching his kids while criticizing his parenting. When Jenny confronted them about me, my dad had grabbed her arm, hard enough to leave marks. Michael had kicked them out.
They were now staying in a motel, calling constantly, showing up at his work. I listened without interrupting, watched my brother break down as he described how our parents had controlled him his entire life, how they’d convinced him I abandoned them, how he’d been too scared to question their version of events, how he’d been trapped in their web of manipulation and lies for 12 years, how he was terrified they would hurt Jenny or the kids. Marcus asked careful questions, about financial entanglements, about house titles and bank accounts, about whether my parents had keys to their house.
Michael answered everything, said they’d cosigned his mortgage, said his dad was still on his bank account from when he was in college, said they had spare keys, said they knew all his passwords. Marcus took notes, occasionally glancing at me. By the end of the meeting, I felt drained but clearer.
This wasn’t just about me anymore. Michael and Jenny were victims too, in their own way, different from me, but still trapped. Marcus suggested they speak to a lawyer of their own, gave them a colleague’s card, told them to change their locks, passwords and bank accounts immediately.
They nodded, looking overwhelmed but grateful. As we were leaving, Michael hugged me. This time, I hugged him back.
It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was something. A recognition that we’d both been damaged by the same people, that maybe we could help each other heal. That night I got a series of increasingly unhinged texts from my parents’ numbers.
Accusations, threats, guilt trips, I blocked them all. Then I called Jenny, asked if they were safe. She said yes.
They’d changed the locks, stayed with friends the night before, were looking into a restraining order. I felt relieved but still worried. The next morning, I woke up to my phone ringing.
It was Jenny, hysterical. They broke into our house, she sobbed. They took Lily’s baby photos, important documents, Michael’s laptop.
They left a note, family matters should stay in the family. I told her to call the police immediately, said I’d meet them at their house, called Marcus on my way. When I arrived, there was a police car outside their house.
An officer was taking statements in the living room. The place was a mess. Drawers pulled out, papers scattered.
Michael was sitting on the couch, head in his hands. Jenny was pointing out missing items to the officer. I introduced myself as family, there to help.
The officer seemed skeptical that grandparents would break in. Are you sure they didn’t just use a key? He asked. Maybe this is a misunderstanding? Jenny showed him her bruised arm, told him about the escalating behavior, about the threats, about how they’d been stalking them.
He took notes but didn’t seem convinced. Said without evidence, it would be hard to prove who did this. After the police left, we cleaned up together, found more missing things, photo albums, financial documents, the spare key to their car.
Michael looked defeated. This is my fault, he said. I should have protected my family better, should have stood up to them years ago, should have looked for you harder.
I didn’t disagree, but I didn’t pile on either. We were beyond that now. Marcus arrived as we were finishing, looked around grimly, said this changed things, that we needed to document everything, that breaking and entering was a serious crime, that we should all stay somewhere else for a few days, that he’d help us file for emergency restraining orders in the morning.
We nodded, too exhausted to argue. Jenny packed bags for them while Michael and I secured the house as best we could, changed locks again, checked windows, discussed security cameras. It felt surreal, taking these precautions against our own parents, but also necessary.
They’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. As we were leaving, Michael got a text from our dad, just three words, we’re watching you. He showed it to me, hands shaking.
I took a screenshot, sent it to Marcus. Then I made a decision, told them they were coming to stay with me. My building had security, cameras, a doorman who already knew not to let our parents in.
They accepted gratefully. That night, the four of us ate takeout in my living room. Lily played with toys Jenny had packed.
We talked quietly about next steps, about restraining orders, about police reports, about changing phone numbers and email addresses, about possibly moving to a new house, about how to protect themselves long term. It wasn’t the family reunion I’d ever imagined, sitting there with the brother who’d let me be abandoned, his wife who’d believed lies about me, and their daughter who was innocent in all of this. But somehow, it felt right, like we were finally facing the truth together.
Like maybe, just maybe, we could build something new from the ashes of what our parents had destroyed. The next morning, Marcus called, said he’d filed emergency restraining orders for all of us, said we needed to appear in court next week to make them permanent, said he’d also reported the break-in to a detective he knew, who was taking it more seriously than the responding officers had, said we should all stay together until this was resolved. I agreed, called my assistant, told her I’d be working from home indefinitely, family emergency.
She understood, rearranged my schedule. I set up a workspace in my guest room for Michael, who also needed to work remotely. Jenny and Lily took over my living room, building pillow forts and watching cartoons.
It was strange having people in my space. I’d lived alone for years, liked my quiet routines, my clean counters, my empty sink. But there was something comforting about the noise too, about Lily’s laughter, about Jenny’s quiet humming as she folded laundry, about Michael’s typing from the other room.
It felt like, family. Not the family that had abandoned me, but maybe the family we could become. That afternoon, my doorman called up, said there was a delivery, flowers.
I told him to check the card before sending them up. He read it to me, we know where you all are, this isn’t over. I told him to refuse the delivery, call the police if the delivery person wouldn’t take them back.
Then I called Marcus again, he said he’d add this to our case file, that it strengthened our request for restraining orders, that we were doing everything right. I didn’t tell Michael or Jenny about the flowers, they were stressed enough. Instead, I ordered extra groceries, made dinner for everyone, played with Lily, tried to create some normalcy in this bizarre situation.
But that night, after everyone was asleep, I sat alone in my kitchen, and finally let myself feel everything. The fear, the anger, the grief, the strange hope. I cried silently into a dish towel so no one would hear me.
In the morning, Jenny found me making coffee, asked if I was okay. I lied, said yes, she didn’t believe me, sat down at the counter. It’s okay not to be okay, Emma, she said gently.
I’m not either. Michael cries in the shower where he thinks no one can hear. Lily keeps asking when we can go home.
This whole situation is terrible, but I’m grateful we’re facing it together. I looked at her, this woman I barely knew who was somehow now part of my life. Asked her why she’d come to me that first day, why she’d chosen to believe me over the family she’d known for years.
She smiled sadly. I’ve always felt something was off about your parents, about the stories they told, about the way they controlled Michael. The podcast confirmed my suspicions.
I couldn’t let my daughters grow up thinking abandoning a child was ever acceptable. We hugged then, first time. It felt awkward but genuine, like the beginning of something.