Seeing It Clearly Now

When I replay the events of that day, I see it with different eyes.
Not as a son. But as a man who’s no longer fooled.

My mum knows me and my sister very well. She knows our patterns, our triggers, our ways of responding — and that’s what makes this so disturbing.

She didn’t tell my sister I was coming. She handled all the communication herself, like she always has. It’s how she stays in control. She curates the narrative.

She chose the meal. I like pie and chips. I was expecting that.
But she got my sister to cook steak. She knew I don’t like steak. She knew I’d say something.
And she knew my sister doesn’t do well with sudden change or uncertainty — especially around food or structure.

So what happened?

I said, calmly, “Oh, I didn’t know we were having steak.”
There was nothing else available.
And my sister snapped — exploded even. She turned on me. Then turned on my mother.
And my mother? She just sat there, quiet, innocent, passive — playing the victim.

It was textbook.
She orchestrated it.
She knew how it would unfold.
And she let it.

If you’d told me this ten years ago, I might’ve brushed it off.
But not now. Now I see it clearly. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

---

This wasn’t the first time.
She’s used the same formula for years.

There’s always a triangle:
The perpetrator. The rescuer. The victim.

My dad was usually cast as the tyrant — the one who snapped, the one who “couldn’t handle things.”
My mum? The fragile victim.
And me? Somewhere between the rescuer and the next person to be blamed, depending on the day.

This time, the roles just shifted.
My sister became the weapon.
I became the one to “ruin the meal.”
And my mother — as always — sat in the centre of it all, quietly sipping her tea, as if the explosion was just a tragic accident.

But it wasn’t.
It was theatre.
And she’s been writing the script for 70 years.

She knows exactly how to push each person just enough to break — while keeping her own hands clean. And the fact that she keeps doing it tells me everything I need to know.

She enjoys it.
I know she does.
Because if she didn’t — why would she keep choosing it?

She could use what she knows about us to create safety. Connection. Repair.
But she never has.
She uses it to create chaos — and then sits back and watches it unfold.

That’s not love. That’s not confusion.
That’s cruelty.

---

To the outside world, she looks lovely. Warm. Caring.
But inside this family system — it’s all manipulation.
And society often says, “But she’s your mum…” as if that erases the reality.

It doesn’t.
Not for me.
Not anymore.

And I’ll never disregard a child again when they speak about their parents — even if they don’t have the words. Because I know how it feels to live in that fog. To doubt your own memory. To wonder if you’re the problem.

I spent half my life behind broken glass.
But not anymore.

Now I see it clearly.
And I will never forget what I’ve seen.