Before I switched over to Gmail in my mid-twenties as my primary email, I still used my Yahoo email address often. Now, it’s been relegated as my “shopping/email list” email address, aka sometimes junk, sometimes fun email. Back then, my Yahoo email was my primary email that I’d use to communicate with family and friends. Randomly today, I accidentally clicked on a folder called “Unread,” which didn’t make any sense because I had read all those messages. It was mostly a lot of messages that were (somehow) marked as “Unread” and still bolded as though they were never opened. And also oddly enough, a lot of these messages were between Ed and me. Most of them dated back to around 2006-2008, but the themes across the messages seemed to be the same: I would urge him to look for a new job or move out of our parents’ house. He would tell me in very short messages that our dad was constantly criticizing and putting him down, making meals out “very unpleasant” when it was just the three of them (our parents and him) to the point where he couldn’t enjoy the food. He repeatedly said he had no moment to himself in their house because once he was home and they were there, too, he was expected to be at our mother’s “beck and call.” If she called his name out and needed help with something, it was expected he would drop everything he was doing in that instant and come immediately to help her. It didn’t matter how trivial the task was. If he didn’t come in that instant, she would, of course, yell and talk about how “useless” he was. Our father, on the other hand, would just criticize him constantly during any interaction with him. When he wasn’t criticizing Ed, he’d be ignoring his very existence under their roof. When Ed would work late and sleep in the next morning, our father would barge into the bedroom, where the main house’s computer was, go online, and blast whatever random music, video, or news he wanted as though my brother wasn’t even there attempting to sleep. Sometimes, it would be as early as 7 or 8am — he just had no regard for my brother’s existence at all. Yet, our dad never did any of this when I’d come home and be sleeping in that same room. The difference? He actually respected me, but he had zero respect for his older son.

It’s sad to read these short exchanges that we had. It rarely was safe for us to talk on the phone with each other because one of our parents would inevitably be lurking in the next room, waiting to hear my brother say something negative about one of them and pounce on him. So, he’d usually wait until they were out of the house to call me. And if that didn’t work, he would occasionally call me from Macy’s, where he used to work, or just email me. In one of those emails, dated in April 2007, he wrote to me while I was in college with one line: “When are you coming back home?”

I stared at that email for a couple minutes today and just felt so sad. There was some deep sadness in that message that I detected, as though he was just wallowing and needed someone else there who he trusted who didn’t look at him like he was a piece of shit. No one should ever feel that way about themselves, especially by their own parents.

Then, my blood pressure went up again. And the wrath came back. You can forgive a lot of things. But these things can never, ever be forgotten.

Every day, I try my best to be patient with Kaia, to explain things to her as I had never experienced as a child growing up. I try to spend quality time with her and talk to her, sing and play with her, and play games to make her laugh and smile. I hope that I can be the mother that I never had — one who loves unconditionally and always makes that clear, and never compares or constantly criticizes. I want her to trust me and know that she can tell me anything. I want her to always believe I have her best interests at heart, even when we disagree.

A lot of these thoughts go through my mind every day, even just for seconds at a time, because I don’t want to replicate the relationship I have with my own mother. My mom has gone through her own tumultuous upbringing and surviving the Vietnam / American War. She had a mother who rejected her because she was a girl, denied her an education, and gave her scraps off her older brothers’ plates for food. She dealt with a nasty mother-in-law who treated her like a slave, and a husband who mirrored his mother’s attitude towards her, his own wife. She rarely had it easy in her younger years. And unfortunately, she’s held a lot of that resentment and anger in her forever, which meant that she took a lot of her frustration out on Ed and me. She deeply distrusts pretty much everyone, and sadly, that even includes me, her only living child. And so, to keep herself going, she likes to concoct false narratives in her head of what must be true and run with them; they are the “facts” of her life that apparently only Jehovah knows and has shared with her (it’s always fun when people weaponize religion, isn’t it?).

It had been a couple weeks since I last called, though I text her almost every day with photos and videos of Kaia (which never get a response; it’s like texting and sending files into a black hole). I called a couple times the last several days, yet no one answered; most of the time, it would ring once or twice and go straight to voice mail. I texted her to let her know I called a few times; no response. I called on Wednesday evening while I went to pick up Kaia, and she was NOT happy with me when she answered.

Mom: What’s going on?

Me: What? What do you mean?

Mom: You know what I mean.

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Mom: You haven’t called in a long time (I tried to interject and tell her I called multiples times and even texted to tell her in the last several days; she responds by insinuating I’m lying even though her phone is crap, and she doesn’t really know how to use it). You know, I haven’t worked since 2001. I don’t have much money, just enough. I know you don’t say it, but I know the reason you don’t call is because you’re angry that I don’t send money to Kaia. I haven’t worked; what money do I have to give?

I could immediately feel my blood start to boil. It’s always fun when the people who are supposed to be closest to you, your parents, know exactly how to blurt out complete bullshit and lies to spike your blood pressure.

I genuinely don’t know what makes her think, based on anything I’ve ever said or done in my entire life, that I’m some money-obsessed gold digger who just wants her or anyone else in my life simply for their money. I have never asked for money, nor have I ever said anything about wanting it from her. I’m sure part of the reason she thinks this is that she’s still bitter that my parents paid for my college education, but you know what — what else were they going to spend their money on? They live like paupers now, in a house that’s completely falling apart, and always have; she clearly thinks she’s poor and is barely scraping by, even though she and my dad each collect a pension and a Social Security check each month, have rental income actively coming in, many investments, and are sitting on multiple pieces of Bay Area property that they could easily sell if they wanted to.

“It really hurts me that you would think that all I think about is money, and that’s the reason I don’t call that often,” I said to her. “If you truly believe that, your mind is disgusting! DISGUSTING!”

“I don’t want to fight!” she responded curtly. “I don’t have the energy! I have to take care of myself. My health not too good. Jehovah knows what is true. Maybe I am wrong. But Jehovah knows and sees all.”

My mom has been saying her health “not too good” for the last twelve years, since the year before Ed died to guilt trip us constantly. She’s always saying she could die tomorrow. She also loves to say that I want her to die. She said it quite a number of times the last time I was home in August 2022 while I was tied to a breast pump, and Kaia was playing on the floor alongside me (talk about positive energy). I genuinely believe that my mom is so sadistic that she probably wishes she had a terminal illness just so that she could loom that over me and manipulate everyone around her to do what she wants.

I told her I didn’t have time for this stupid conversation and had go to, and hung up before I got into the daycare to get Kaia. The funny thing was – just hours earlier, I was working on a collection of framed and canvas photos of Kaia to send to her.

“I don’t know why you bother sending her these things,” Chris grumbled when I told him about the order. “She’s never grateful for anything you do.”

He’s right. And while I’ve completely come to terms that I am not responsible for my parents’ unhappiness, a part of me still wants to give them forms of temporary joy, whether that’s true a video or photo of Kaia, or food or flowers delivered. They always find a way to criticize all those, too, and sometimes, they don’t even say a simple “thank you.” But at the end of the day, it’s all futile. We are all adults who have a roof over our heads, financial security, and no worries of being in a war-torn country (anymore, at least, for my mom). Given these privileges, it’s our choice to be happy. And if they choose not to be happy, then that is 100 percent on them, and I don’t have to participate in their sick mess.

My oldest cousin, who lives in the Bay Area, had a quick work trip to New York this week, so I suggested that he come over for dinner given Kaia’s short window between daycare pickup and bedtime. I prepared dinner and used his visit as an excuse to bake a seasonal dessert, so I made my much-awaited pumpkin spiced mochi muffins (which I actually had on my list of things to bake two years ago right before Kaia was born, but I clearly lost track of time). After he landed, he dropped off his bag at his hotel and came up to our apartment. He also had Joe’s Pizza delivered, which somehow excited Pookster. She’s only had a taste or two of pizza in her entire existence, yet somehow she immediately knew this was pizza and that she needed to have it ASAP, saying “Want pizza! Want pizza!” over and over until I cut her a slice and removed most of the pepperoni. Oh, toddlers!

We talked about work, travel, and home. I asked him how the house was (the one his mom shares with my parents). And he told me something I had no idea about: there are MICE in the basement again! The last time I heard about mice being in the house was before the foundation was redone, so around the time our grandma passed away in 1995. He said that they hadn’t made their way up to the second or third floors but were in the basement. And my dad had told him that he’d already caught SIX of them. That completely grossed me out.

It annoyed me to hear that there are rodents in the house. The obvious thought is the lack of hygiene as a result of these pests. But the other thing I thought about was all the endless clutter that my parents and my aunt have stored in the basement. The more clutter and crap there is, the more places the rodents will have to hide and shelter and make the basement their home. All of this just makes for a worsening situation. And I am pretty certain that they are doing nothing to clear the clutter and prevent these issues since the entire basement is a filthy, disgusting, dilapidated disgrace. I feel embarrassed just thinking about how that space looks.

I’m sure my mom never told me because she knew I’d say all of this. And she’d use the excuse that she’s “disabled” and doesn’t have the ability to clean it up. Because of course, it’s all just on her to do these things. The never ending cycle of insanity, angst, and torment in that god-forsaken house.

It’s a weird thing to think, but every time we approach Ed’s birthday, Ed’s death anniversary, or even the annual AFSP Out of the Darkness walk, I always hope or expect to see him in my dreams. It doesn’t always happen, but sometimes, it does. Sometimes, it’s a happy, sweet dream. But in most cases, it’s a dream filled with anger and angst, usually directed at my parents.

About two nights ago, I had a dream that I was sitting in a funeral chapel, staring blankly ahead at Ed’s casket. The casket, for whatever reason, was closed. Flower wreaths surrounded the closed casket. But I was just sitting there, seething. I could feel that my blood pressure was soaring. My dad was chattering away to my mom mindlessly, talking through logistical things that needed to be done, such as accounts that needed to be closed, or checks that needed to be cashed out. More and more people I didn’t recognize were filling up the room. But all I could think was: how could we let him kill himself a second time? Aren’t people only supposed to live and die once? How did we resurrect him, and then he still managed to get away and be miserable enough to end his life a SECOND time? Did our parents not learn shit the first time around? Why were they so completely incapable of appreciating their first-born, their only son? It’s all I could think of while sitting there with my pulse racing. People approached me to greet and hug me and express their condolences, but it felt like I was just putting on an act and I wasn’t even really hearing them. All I could think of was: how stupid could our parents really be to allow this to happen AGAIN?

People oftentimes make comments about how sad it must be for Chris and me to live so far away from our families. Our family members are all either in San Francisco or somewhere in Australia, neither of which is a quick car ride or flight away. Both trips take both money and time commitment, and outside of Chris’s parents, no one really wants to come visit us here regularly, as strange as it may sound since New York City is likely one of the most exciting cities in the world.

The thing about commenting on the distance is always funny to me, though. Just because family members or friends may be close distance-wise, that doesn’t necessarily mean that we’d see each other more often. It might be easier or cheaper, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily equate to more frequent visits or hangouts. At most, I see friends who live here in New York once a month, and that’s only very close friends. We all have our own lives and commitments, and it really does take a strong desire to commit to spending a day or evening with someone.

My aunt, who lives in San Francisco, texted me a some photos of when her middle child, his wife, and their two teenage children came to visit her at her house two days ago. I knew that they barely saw each other at all even though my cousin lives just a 30-minute drive away. When I asked my aunt when the last time they’d seen each other was, she responded, “at your wedding.”

Hmmmmm. That was in March 2016. So they literally have not seen each other in over 7.5 years, despite all living in proximity right in the Bay Area. That’s what happens when you’re close distance-wise to family – you can just tend to forget about them completely.

This afternoon, my aunt texted me to ask if I had time at 7 tonight for a quick Zoom call. She said that she was able to get temporary unlimited call access on Zoom, so she wanted to surprise my mom with Kaia and me on video during their scheduled Bible study. She said it wouldn’t be more than ten minutes. 7pm is usually when we start getting Kaia ready for bed, so I agreed as long as it would be quick.

Honestly, I wasn’t even sure why my aunt thought this would be a good idea. A couple of times over the years, my aunt has brought the phone over to my parents when she’s FaceTimed me, and my mom has never responded positively to it. She always says video is unnecessary. She shies away from the phone and tries to hide her face. She waves her hand and says “No! No!” to get the phone away. She doesn’t seem to understand the value of video calls. I’ve suggested doing Zoom multiple times since Kaia has been born so she could at least see her live, but every single time, my mom has refused.

So predictably tonight, when we got on the Zoom, my mom was immediately unhappy. I sat Pookster in my lap, and as soon as my mom saw us, she didn’t even smile or say hi. Instead, she frowned and said, “No, this is unnecessary,” as though we couldn’t even hear her. It was so rude and awkward. Does she realize that we can hear everything she’s saying? Who acts like that when they see someone? She cannot handle surprises, and she never behaves well when people try to do these nice things to make her happy. Everything has to be some dramatic negative event for her, something that people “push” her into that she doesn’t like.

It was just so stupid in every way possible. I constantly get asked by friends, family, colleagues, and acquaintances if my parents have any plans to visit, or if we do video calls. And I always say no because it’s the truth. You’d think that my parents would want some direct contact with their only grandchild, but no. They rather see pre-recorded videos of her rather than seeing the actual person in the flesh.