For much of my childhood, I was told how fortunate I was to have both parents in my life. My mother had endured the pain of her own parents’ divorce, and she carried that weight with her. Many of my friends came from single-parent or blended families, and they often expressed envy at how “normal” my family appeared to be.
“You’re so lucky. I would have done anything for my parents to stay together.”
“I can’t stand having to see my dad only on weekends. You’re fortunate yours is always around.”
“I wish my parents shared the love your mom and dad do. You’re so lucky.”
But if I was so lucky, why did I feel such profound unhappiness? The truth is, people only saw what we wanted them to see. My mother clung to the idea of her perfect family, convinced that staying married to my father was enough to break the cycle of her own childhood trauma.
Yet history tragically repeated itself.
My parents were trapped in a toxic relationship, both coming from backgrounds filled with abuse, which they often used to justify their own harmful behaviors. They felt that their hardships excused how they treated others, including their own children.
On the surface, we appeared to be a loving family. My parents were vibrant and sociable, and many assumed that this equated to happiness.
My father was a natural entertainer, always making jokes and lifting spirits. My friends adored him; many didn’t have fathers who spent time with them, and they looked to him as the ideal dad. My mother was emotionally expressive and charming, showering people with affection and kindness, encouraging my friends to call her “Mom.”
However, this warmth rarely extended toward my siblings and me. My father often overlooked me, finding my quiet nature unappealing. He favored my younger brother, who was more adventurous and outgoing. I sometimes questioned whether I was his biological child because of the disparity in attention. But our resemblance was undeniable, leading me to accept that my dad simply didn’t care for me.
My mother treated me more like a confidant than a child. She never showed genuine nurturing; instead, I was the one tasked with managing her emotions. I faced her wrath if I failed to meet her expectations. She could lash out for no apparent reason, and I lived in fear of her temper. Cruel comments about my personality and appearance stung, and her resentment of motherhood left scars. She often hinted that she might not be there when I returned from school.
I never turned to my father for protection, knowing deep down that I was not valued.
While I had my basic needs met—food, clothing, and shelter—I felt an overwhelming sense of neglect. This left me feeling guilty, as I had been told repeatedly how blessed I was to have such a wonderful family. My parents were well-liked, which fueled my belief that I must be the problem. I thought if I tried harder, I could earn their love, but it was never sufficient.
As an adult, I’ve come to realize that my feelings of neglect stemmed from emotional abandonment. My parents expertly crafted an illusion of a perfect family, all while failing to protect their children from abuse by extended family members. Although they may not have understood the full extent of the harm, they were aware enough to take action. Yet their self-pity clouded their judgment, leaving their children to suffer.
I’m sure my parents believed they would break the cycle. My father didn’t want to be unloving like his own dad, who preferred his sister. My mother sought to avoid the broken marriage her parents endured. But she often used me as a sounding board for her frustration with my father, mirroring the dynamic she experienced in her own childhood.
They never made a genuine effort to change; instead, they focused on maintaining the façade of the perfect family.
When the time came for me to start my own family, I had a lot to contemplate. I realized that family is not solely defined by blood or shared interests. It’s about recognizing the past and learning from it rather than hiding from it. It’s essential to acknowledge learned behaviors and take responsibility for the impact of one’s past on the present.
I now have a daughter and am acutely aware of the patterns that have plagued mothers and daughters in my family. I plan to have more children and am conscious of the tendency to favor certain children over others. I also recognize the pressure to maintain appearances, which I find troubling. My anxiety about how others perceive me is something I’m actively working to change.
There are many toxic patterns in my family history, and while I may never fully unlearn them, I am committed to breaking the cycle. I know that the family I’ve created isn’t perfect, and that’s okay. I accept that I won’t get everything right, and I’ve come to terms with not needing to live up to an unrealistic image. What matters is the love we share and our dedication to nurturing our relationships.
Family is about effort, making mistakes, and striving to improve.
This is what the perfect family means to me: an imperfect unit that may not always meet the expectations of others but is bound by love and commitment to growth.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the facade of a “perfect” family while revealing the deep-seated emotional neglect and toxicity within her own upbringing. Despite appearing fortunate to outsiders, she faced feelings of neglect and emotional abandonment from her parents, who were themselves products of troubled backgrounds. Now a mother, she recognizes the importance of breaking the cycle of dysfunction and embracing the reality of an imperfect family built on love and understanding.