The Reflection in Her Eyes

They say a mother’s love is unconditional, a beacon of warmth and acceptance. But for me, love from my mother often felt like a mirage—promised, yet always out of reach. My mother wasn’t just difficult or demanding; she was a narcissist. It’s taken me years to understand this truth and to begin untangling the web of manipulation, control, and emotional abuse that defined my childhood.

My sister, six years older than me, was the golden child. We were both adopted, but that’s where the similarities between us ended in my mother’s eyes. My sister could do no wrong; she was the shining star, my mother’s pride and joy. I, on the other hand, was the scapegoat—the problem child, the one who could never measure up.

It’s only now, as an adult, that I’ve started to understand the dynamics of narcissistic parenting and the deep scars it leaves. This is my story—one of growing up in the shadow of my mother’s narcissism and finding a way to reclaim my identity.

Two Adopted Kids, Two Different Fates

From the outside, we might have looked like the perfect family. Two adopted kids, a loving mother, and a hardworking father. But beneath the surface, the cracks were always there, growing deeper as the years passed.

My sister was everything my mother admired: intelligent, graceful, and obedient. She instinctively knew how to win my mother’s approval, playing the role of the perfect daughter to a tee. My mother reveled in her accomplishments, parading them like trophies to anyone who would listen. She was the golden child, my mother’s favorite.

I, on the other hand, was an afterthought—or worse, a burden. My interests, my achievements, even my existence seemed to annoy her. She rarely missed an opportunity to compare me to my sister, pointing out how I fell short. I quickly learned that nothing I did would ever be good enough in her eyes.

One vivid memory stands out. I was about five years old, and I had just finished building a model airplane. I was proud of it—it had taken me hours of meticulous work. I showed it to my mother, hoping for a smile or a word of praise. Instead, she glanced at it and said, “That’s nice, but your sister just won a spelling bee. Why don’t you try doing something important like that?” Her words stung more than any punishment ever could.

Living in the Narcissist’s World

Looking back, I can see how my mother’s narcissism shaped every aspect of our lives. She had an uncanny ability to make everything about her. If I brought up a problem I was having, she’d twist the conversation to focus on her own struggles. If I succeeded at something, she’d find a way to diminish it or take credit for it.

Her need for control was suffocating. She dictated how I dressed, who I spent time with, and even what hobbies I pursued. Anything that didn’t align with her image of the “perfect family” was dismissed or ridiculed. She didn’t yell or hit; her weapons were more insidious: sarcasm, guilt, and silent treatment.

I remember once getting in trouble at school for talking back to a teacher. When I told her about it, hoping for understanding, she exploded. Not with anger, but with disappointment. “Do you know how embarrassing this is for me?” she said. “What will people think about my parenting?” It wasn’t about me or my feelings; it was always about her.

My Sister, the Golden Child

My sister and I had a complicated relationship. As a kid, I resented her. It felt like she could do no wrong, like she was living the life I could only dream of. My mother doted on her, showering her with praise and attention, while I was left to fend for myself emotionally.

But as I grew older, I started to see the cracks in my sister’s golden-child facade. She was under immense pressure to be perfect. My mother’s love for her was conditional—based on her achievements and her ability to reflect well on the family. My sister wasn’t allowed to make mistakes or show vulnerability. In her own way, she was just as trapped as I was.

Still, the favoritism hurt. I remember one birthday when my sister got a brand-new bike—sleek, shiny, and expensive. I got clothes. It wasn’t just the material difference; it was the way my mother gushed over my sister’s gift while barely acknowledging mine. Moments like that drove a wedge between us that took years to mend.

Adolescence and Rebellion

As I got older, I started pushing back against my mother’s control. I stayed out later than I was supposed to, hung out with friends she didn’t approve of, and stopped trying to win her approval. If I was going to be the scapegoat, I figured I might as well embrace it.

But rebellion came at a cost. Every argument ended with her turning the blame back on me. “You’re so ungrateful,” she’d say, or, “I’ve done everything for you, and this is how you repay me?” Her words cut deep, filling me with guilt even as I tried to distance myself from her.

My father, always the peacemaker, rarely stepped in. I think he saw what was happening, but he didn’t know how to stop it. His silence felt like betrayal, even though I now understand he was likely just trying to keep the peace.

Breaking Free

The real turning point came in my twenties, after I moved out and started building a life of my own. With distance came clarity. I began to see the patterns of manipulation and control for what they were. I started reading about narcissistic parents and realized I wasn’t alone. For the first time, I understood that my mother’s behavior wasn’t my fault.

Setting boundaries wasn’t easy. Every time I tried to assert myself, she pushed back harder, accusing me of being selfish or disrespectful. But over time, I learned to stand firm. I began prioritizing my own well-being and surrounding myself with people who valued me for who I was, not for what I could do for them.

The Legacy of Narcissism

It’s one thing to survive a narcissistic parent; it’s another to recognize how that upbringing shapes the way you live, love, and parent. For years, I didn’t see it. I thought I had broken free, that the emotional wounds my mother left behind were mine alone to bear. But now, as I look at my own children, I’m beginning to see the echoes of her influence—not just in me, but in them.

Raising kids is challenging for anyone, but for someone who grew up in a household like mine, it’s a minefield of triggers and blind spots. At first, I didn’t realize how much my mother’s voice still lived in my head. Her criticisms, her need for control, her way of twisting every situation into an indictment of my worth—they all left a mark. And without meaning to, I carried a lot of those patterns into my own parenting.

I see it now in the moments when I lose my patience or when I try to push my kids to achieve things I think will reflect well on me. I see it in the way I’ve sometimes dismissed their feelings, not because I don’t care, but because I never learned how to handle emotions in a healthy way. My mother didn’t teach me that, and I’ve had to figure it out on my own, one mistake at a time.

Confronting the Mirror

The hardest part of this journey has been looking in the mirror and admitting that my children have felt the effects of my wounds. It’s not easy to face. There’s a deep shame in realizing that, despite my best intentions, I’ve passed some of the pain down to them. But there’s also a strange kind of hope in it. Because recognizing the problem is the first step toward fixing it.

I’ve started to have honest conversations with my kids, something my mother would have never done with me. I’ve told them about my childhood—not in a way that burdens them, but in a way that helps them understand why I’ve made the mistakes I have. I’ve apologized when I’ve gotten it wrong, and I’ve told them I’m committed to doing better.

It’s a humbling experience to hear your child tell you how your actions have hurt them. It’s painful, but it’s also necessary. For me, those conversations have been a turning point—a chance to break the cycle that my mother’s narcissism set in motion.

Breaking the Cycle

The more I learn about myself, the more I realize that breaking the cycle isn’t just about what I do for my children; it’s also about what I do for myself. Healing is a messy, nonlinear process, but it’s essential if I want to be the kind of parent my kids deserve.

I’ve sought online help—therapy, books, support groups—and I’ve started to untangle the web of beliefs and behaviors that my mother instilled in me. I’ve learned about setting boundaries, not just with others but with myself. I’ve learned that my worth isn’t tied to my children’s achievements or their perception of me. And I’ve learned that it’s okay to not have all the answers, as long as I’m willing to keep learning and growing.

For my children, I’ve made a commitment: to show them love that isn’t conditional, to let them make mistakes without fear of judgment, and to give them the space to be themselves. It’s slow and not always easy—there are still moments when my old habits creep in—but I’m learning to catch myself, to pause, and to choose a different path.

A Message to My Children

If I could say one thing to my children, it would be this: I see you. I see your pain, your joys, your struggles, and your dreams. I know I’ve made mistakes, and I’m sorry for the ways I’ve hurt you. But I want you to know that I love you—not for what you do, but for who you are.

I want to be better for you. I want to give you the tools to navigate life with confidence, to trust your instincts, and to know that you are enough, just as you are. And I want you to know that it’s okay to hold me accountable, to tell me when I’ve fallen short. I welcome it, because I’m committed to growing, for you and for myself.

Learning to Parent Without a Map

When you grow up in chaos, you don’t realize how much of it you internalize. My mother’s influence wasn’t just in the things she said or did—it was in the things I never learned. I never saw what healthy conflict resolution looked like. I didn’t know how to navigate my emotions or those of others. And I didn’t have a blueprint for what it meant to love unconditionally.

So when I became a father, I improvised. I told myself I would never be like my mother. I would be supportive, kind, and present. And in many ways, I was. But there were moments—moments when I was tired, stressed, or triggered—when I felt her shadow rising in me. A cutting remark, a dismissive gesture, a flash of anger that had more to do with me than with my kids. Each time, it left me feeling ashamed, wondering if I was doomed to repeat her mistakes.

Parenting without a map is terrifying. But I’ve realized it’s also an opportunity. I’m not bound to the patterns of my past. I can choose differently, even if it means stumbling along the way. And every time I choose love, patience, or vulnerability over control or criticism, I take another step toward breaking the cycle.

The Weight of Forgiveness

Forgiving my mother was never going to be a simple process. For years, I clung to my anger like a shield. It protected me from the pain of her rejection and the weight of her manipulation. But over time, I’ve come to realize that anger, while justified, is a heavy thing to carry.

Forgiveness, for me, isn’t about absolving her of her actions. It’s about freeing myself from the grip of her influence. It’s about acknowledging the damage she caused without letting it define me. I’ve had to accept that I’ll never get the apology I longed for as a child. I’ve had to let go of the hope that she might change. And I’ve had to mourn the relationship I wish we could have had.

But forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. I still keep my boundaries firm. I limit contact and protect my mental health, because I know that engaging with her too deeply can reopen old wounds. Forgiveness is something I do for me, not for her.

The Ripple Effect

As I’ve delved deeper into my own healing, I’ve begun to see how far the ripples of my childhood extend. It’s not just about my relationship with my children—it’s about my friendships, my marriage, and even my relationship with myself.

For years, I struggled with self-worth. My mother’s constant criticisms had taught me to see myself through her eyes, always falling short. It took a long time, maybe in my fifties, to unlearn that. To see that I didn’t need to be perfect to be worthy of love. To stop measuring my value by my productivity or the approval of others.

In my marriages, I’ve had to confront my fear of vulnerability. Growing up, emotions were a weapon in my mother’s hands. Opening up felt dangerous, so I learned to shut down or run instead. But I’ve realized that true connection requires risk. It requires showing the messy, unfiltered parts of myself and trusting that I won’t be rejected. My partner has been patient with me, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

What I Want My Kids to Know

If there’s one thing I want my kids to carry with them, it’s this: you are enough. You don’t need to earn my love or anyone else’s. It’s not something you have to work for; it’s something you deserve simply because you exist.

I want them to know it’s okay to make mistakes. That they can come to me with their failures, their fears, and their feelings, and I won’t judge them or turn them away. I want them to know that their worth isn’t tied to their achievements, their appearance, or their ability to make me look good. They are their own people, and I celebrate them for who they are.

A Letter to Myself

To the little boy who grew up in that house of mirrors, always searching for a love he couldn’t find: I see you. I see how hard you tried, how much you wanted to make her proud. I see the pain you carried, the questions you asked yourself late at night—“Why am I not enough? What’s wrong with me?” I wish I could go back and tell you what I know now.

There was never anything wrong with you. You were enough then, just as you are now. The problem wasn’t you; it was her. Her inability to love you the way you needed wasn’t a reflection of your worth but of her own wounds.

You’ve carried that pain long enough. It’s okay to put it down now. It’s okay to let yourself heal. You are not your past. You are not defined by her choices. You are free to be whoever you want to be.

Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead

When my mother died, I didn’t cry. There was no outpouring of grief, no dramatic moment of closure. Instead, a strange sense of liberation washed over me. And yes, I sang “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead.", loudly and for a long while.

It wasn’t a calculated act of malice or disrespect—it was an impulsive release of decades of tension, anger, and confusion. I hadn’t realized how heavy her presence had been in my life until it was gone. Her death didn’t erase the pain she caused, but it ended the looming shadow of her control. It felt like taking a deep breath after holding it for far too long.

At first, I felt guilty. Singing a jaunty song while processing a parent’s death isn’t what most people consider normal behavior. But my relationship with my mother was anything but normal. Her death wasn’t just the loss of a parent—it was the loss of the source of my pain, my self-doubt, and my childhood confusion. It was a strange mix of relief and finality, and that song captured what I couldn’t say out loud.

The Aftermath of Liberation

In the days that followed, I wrestled with my emotions. Should I feel more? Was it wrong to feel this way? Grief has its own rules, and none of them seemed to apply to me. I wasn’t mourning her as a mother; I was mourning the mother she could never be.

After she died, I felt a strange sense of freedom. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t carrying the weight of her expectations or walking on eggshells to avoid her wrath. I began to imagine a version of myself that wasn’t defined by her. What did I want? Who could I be without her voice in my head?

Reflecting on the Song

That song—“Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead”—became an odd sort of anthem for me. It wasn’t about celebrating her death; it was about celebrating the end of her power over me. It was a reminder that I could finally exhale, finally live on my terms.

I started to share the story with close friends, hesitantly at first, unsure of how they’d react. To my surprise, most of them laughed—not at her death, but at the absurdity of it all. Their laughter gave me permission to see the humor in the situation, to embrace the complexity of my feelings without judgment.

I’m not proud of singing that song, but I don’t regret it either. It was a moment of release, a way of saying goodbye to the pain she caused. It wasn’t the kind of closure I imagined, but it was mine, and that’s enough.

The Ghost She Left Behind

Even in death, my mother’s influence lingered. Her voice still echoed in my mind during moments of doubt, her criticisms sneaking in when I least expected it. But her physical absence gave me space to confront those ghosts and begin the hard work of letting them go.

I started online therapy, a step I’d avoided for years. Talking to people who understood the dynamics of narcissistic parenting was transformative. For the first time, I had the tools to separate her voice from my own, to distinguish her judgment from reality. Slowly, I began to build a version of myself that wasn’t shaped by her expectations or limitations.

A Final Goodbye

Singing that song wasn’t just a way to cope with her death; it was my goodbye. It was messy, unconventional, and maybe even a little disrespectful, but it was honest. It was my way of closing a chapter that had defined my life for too long.

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand my mother or the choices she made. I’ll never know why she couldn’t love me the way I needed her to. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that her approval was never something I needed to chase. Her inability to love wasn’t a reflection of my worth—it was a reflection of her limitations.

As I move forward, I carry the lessons of my past with me, but I refuse to let them define my future. I’ve learned to forgive—not for her, but for me. I’ve learned to let go of the anger and resentment that held me back. And I’ve learned that it’s okay to sing a silly song if it helps you heal.

The Trap My Mother Set

For years, my sister and I walked different paths within the same labyrinth, both trying to navigate the world our mother built. She was the golden child, I was the scapegoat, and my mother was the puppeteer, pulling the strings with calculated precision. For a while, I thought my sister and I might one day reconcile, that we could heal together from the wounds we carried. But then my mother set a trap, one so insidious that it severed our relationship for good.

It started with a lie. My mother was always skilled at spinning narratives to suit her needs, at turning people against each other while keeping herself at the center of their worlds. I don’t know if she did it out of malice, a desire for control, or simply because she could, but this time, the damage was irreparable.

She told my sister something—something cruel, something false—about me. To this day, I don’t know the exact details, but I know the outcome. My sister believed her.

At first, I was angry—angry at my mother for creating the rift, angry at my sister for believing her, and angry at myself for not being able to fix it. But as the years passed, that anger turned to sadness. I missed my sister. I missed the bond we could have had if our mother hadn’t pitted us against each other. But no matter how much I longed for reconciliation, I couldn’t keep chasing after someone who wasn’t ready to see the truth.

The Puppet Master’s Legacy

What I’ve come to understand is that this wasn’t just a one-time event. This was part of my mother’s pattern, her way of maintaining control even as her children grew older. By keeping us divided, she ensured that neither of us could see the full picture of her manipulation. My sister and I were pawns in her game, and by the time I realized it, the damage was already done.

The saddest part is knowing that my mother’s trap worked. She succeeded in driving a wedge between us, a wedge that still exists today. I don’t know if my sister will ever see things the way I do. I don’t know if she’ll ever question the stories our mother told her or if she’ll ever want to rebuild what was broken. And I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that she might not.

Learning to Let Go

For a long time, I held onto hope that my sister and I could reconcile. I imagined heartfelt conversations where we laid everything on the table, acknowledged the pain our mother caused, and found a way to move forward together. But hope can be a double-edged sword. The more I clung to it, the more it hurt when my sister continued to pull away.

Eventually, I realized that I couldn’t control her choices any more than I could control our mother’s behavior. I had to let go—not of the love I still have for her, but of the expectation that she would one day come around. Letting go doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring. It means I’ve stopped waiting.

Finding Peace in the Divide

Even though my sister and I don’t talk, I’ve found a sense of peace in accepting the situation for what it is. I’ve come to understand that our estrangement isn’t entirely her fault. She grew up in the same house I did, under the same manipulations, and while our roles in my mother’s narrative were different, we were both victims in our own way.

I’ve also learned to focus on the relationships I can nurture. My own children, my partner, my friends—they’re the family I choose, the people who see me for who I am and love me anyway. They remind me that love doesn’t have to come with strings attached, that connection doesn’t have to be a battlefield.

A Letter to My Sister

If I could speak to my sister without the weight of the past between us, this is what I would say:

“I miss you. I miss the bond we could have had, the relationship we might still have if things had been different. I know our mother did everything she could to drive a wedge between us, and I’m sorry for the pain you’ve carried because of her. I don’t blame you for believing her—I know how convincing she could be. But I wish you could see the truth. I wish we could sit down, just the two of us, and talk about everything.

I don’t know if that day will ever come, but I want you to know that I love you, even from a distance. I’ve let go of the anger, but I’ll never stop hoping for your happiness. And if you ever decide to reach out, I’ll be here.”