Letting Go of the Family That Wasn’t

Sometimes clarity doesn’t come through big breakdowns or revelations.
Sometimes it shows up in a quiet moment — like realising your uncle looked at you with subtle offence just because you didn’t echo his excitement about a car or a keepsake.

I wasn’t cruel. I wasn’t unkind.
I was just honest.
But in that family system, honesty is treated like a threat.
Having a different opinion? It’s betrayal.
Having boundaries? It’s rejection.
Not performing warmth to fragile people? It’s a crime.

And I’m seeing now — it was always like that.

My uncle gave me cards once a year. He was present in fragments. But I think I clung to those fragments not because they were love — but because they were something. And when you grow up with so little, you mistake crumbs for a meal. You start convincing yourself that emotional coldness is just another version of affection.

But now, as an adult, I see it more clearly:
That wasn’t love.
That wasn’t safety.
That wasn’t family.

It was survival dressed up in politeness.
It was performance dressed up as connection.

I think he was shaped by the same brokenness that shaped my mum. I think he, too, didn’t get much love. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay in that legacy.

There’s still a part of me that wants to cling to the idea of family — to salvage something that feels like home. But what I’m finally starting to understand is:

I don’t have one.
And that’s okay.

Because the grief is honest now.
It’s not masked by hope.
It’s not blurred by fantasy.
It’s mine, and it’s grounded in truth.

I’m not walking away from something real.
I’m just stopping the performance.
And for the first time — that feels like peace.