I have struggled with the ethics and the timing of both this letter and the decision it contains. It has been hard to write for a number of reasons. Who would ever want this? Unfortunately, all of this has been dumped into my lap now. Unfortunately, all of this has come to light at the worst possible time ever for the whole family. Even though my heart has so much compassion for the suffering of my other family members, compassion for others should not require self-abandonment. If you read this, this is not just about my father passing, that would be enough grief for all time. There are multiple layers of grief, and it is overwhelming. I am going to try to do this with as much dignity and as little disturbance as possible.
I just answered the phone.
Luke 12:2–3 (NIV)
"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs."
Mark 4:22 (NIV)
"For whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open."
Grief is not a single note. It arrives as a full chord of sorrow braided with memory, ache laced with history. When you come from a family where pain has echoed for generations, loss doesn’t only stir love. It stirs all that has gone unspoken.
My father recently passed, and I miss him with my whole heart. I will continue to honor him in ways true to how we connected—in small, sacred rituals. I remember he would take me to work on Saturdays and drink all the soda I wanted. He loved watching action movies, the kind he and I used to enjoy together. I already hear his voice in my mind—offering commentary, chuckling at a one-liner. He liked to guess who the E.D. (evil doer) was. When I was little we went to hockey games and baseball games. By 6 this little Texan knew blood bounced on ice thanks to her Daddy.
I am inserting my dad's favorite action scene. He loved this scene:
My favorite memory of my Dad is from 1983. He got me to go with him to run an errand. He had heard someone talking at church about how they wouldn't be able to make their mortgage payment that month. He put cash in an envelope and had me sneak up to their mailbox to put it inside. The envelope was unmarked. For my 10 year old self this felt like a super secret spy mission. On the way home we talked. My dad explained that he had me sneak up so that there was a better chance that no one would know he did this. He wanted to remain anonymous; more importantly, he wanted the people he blessed to know that it was God who did this for them. My Dad was like that, incredibly generous to others in every way possible.
My Dad had a sense of ethics, he loved mercy over judgement, He loved me, he was proud of me; and I loved him tremendously. I wrote in a previous article about being a theological nerd. It was my father who introduced me to who Jesus is.
These memories are mine to keep, and I hold them close.
That said, I will not be attending his funeral.
This decision is not rooted in anger or revenge. It is rooted in clarity—born from years of witnessing patterns I no longer wish to carry. Invitations were extended in word but denied in spirit, like in Peanuts, where Lucy plants the football and invites Charlie Brown to kick it, only to take it away. Conversations were twisted behind closed doors. People were pitted against one another. And important events—like this one—were planned without my presence or input, though I was fully alive and reachable.
When I learned a service was being planned for my father, I was told not to help. There was no conversation. No space made for my voice. The pattern repeated—this time, with grief as the backdrop.
Here is what the patterns look like:
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Undermined me as a mother: By not telling the truth to my children or taking accountability for her own actions. Reinforcing distance rather than encouraging reconciliation.
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Dismissed or gaslit my pain: By minimizing mental health needs, invalidating trauma, and denying responsibility when harm was done.
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Triangulated relationships: Meddling where you don't belong, Speaking behind others' backs, distorting stories, and casting herself as either the victim or the spiritual authority.
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Erased my voice: Through exclusion (especially at key life moments), shaming, and silencing under the guise of “peace.”
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Manipulated with faith: Using biblical language or religious identity to justify behavior that caused division, confusion, and deep emotional wounds.
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Maintained appearances over truth: Upholding the image of a “godly” matriarch while engaging in patterns that contradict Christlike humility and care.
Some will not see it this way. That’s all right. I had to wrestle with this for weeks to make the decision I thought was ethical and best for me emotionally. My father was who I would normally go to for this advice, and he is gone. I have done the best I can without him. Agreement isn’t required for me to stand in what I know to be true.
Despite pressure to "show up" and “keep the peace.”; I’ve come to understand: peace is not the absence of conflict. Peace is the presence of integrity. Showing up physically, when I’ve been emotionally erased from the service, would betray the healing I’ve worked so hard to earn.
It is not withdrawal. It is recalibration.
This is not about disrespecting my father. It is the opposite. I hope you will read and understand the rest of this post with empathy. Empathy for me, for my children and partners, and for my mother.
I honor my father by grieving truthfully. I honor him by refusing to perform a lie. I honor myself by stepping out of roles I never agreed to carry. Roles like scapegoat, black sheep, truth teller.
My goals now have shifted. The goal now is to be whole for me and my children and grandchildren.
To my out-of-town relatives, or those who know me only in fragments: Please know, I am not absent because I do not care. I am absent because I care enough to choose differently. I care about myself, and I care deeply about my children. I will do anything to protect them.
I want to tell you a true story, not out of bitterness, but out of the deep ache to be seen rightly.
This past week, I lost my father.
He was a complex, loving, human man—one who showed up for me in quiet, personal ways, especially when I needed protection or strength. His passing has brought a swell of memories, a storm of emotions, and—unfortunately—some very painful dynamics back into my life. For anyone who comes from a family system that struggles with judgment, control, or unresolved grief, you may understand how death can sometimes stir more than sorrow.
My father was a source of deep comfort in my life. He was incredibly smart, he understood things about pain and survival that others refused to see. That mattered more than I could ever put into words, he was my soft place to land and I loved him more than I could ever express. He was also very protective of me and he frequently stepped in to solve problems. But now both he, and that protection are gone. I want to share something deeply personal. My father meant a great deal to me, and his passing has left a space in my heart that I am still learning how to hold.
In his passing, I am being erased from his life. I think the best way to explain all of this, and to show the true impact of it is to give you the timeline of what happened to me in the order it was revealed:
On Sunday, July 13th, 2025 my mother called to tell me that my father had passed away. My mother asked me to deliver the news to Chloe and John, and she made a special request that I tell both of my children that their Grandfather was not disappointed in them at all. It seemed a bit odd, because I didn't think they felt that at all. But if that was what she wanted me to do, I would do it. It was my goal to make all of this as easy as possible. I asked if I could come over to the house, just to be closer to my father. I was told no, that my mother had a lot of her friends there in the house she had already called, and she had some of the county people and funeral home folks there.
Sunday Evening I called her again to check on her and to ask if I could do anything to help. My mother let me know that my brother, and my brother's wife were headed to her house, so I wouldn't be needed. She was going to plan everything with David or Heather. Her tone and cadence got her message across, and I felt the jab. I chalked it up to grief.
If this was where the chaos stopped, I would still be attending the service.
My father’s death has brought unbearable grief—but not just the kind that comes from loss. It’s also brought the pain of being deliberately excluded from honoring him by the person who should be bringing the family together. I am grieving my father’s death, but I am also grieving how the space to honor him has been taken from me. That is something I know he never would have wanted.
This is a pattern with my mother that I thought we had resolved 23 years ago. 23 years ago, there was a fracture in my relationship with my mother over her interference with Emma before she was born that required a meeting with: my current husband at the time (Brian), my father, and my mother (who had been meddling where she should not have). Promises were made that this wouldn't happen again. But sadly, it must have just driven her undercover.
The truth is, my life has not followed the script my mother holds sacred—marriage without struggle, motherhood without identity, faith without wrestling. I married young, survived abuse, rebuilt my life, and sought healing for my mind as well as my spirit. I have worked hard, mothered fiercely, studied with passion, and tried to live with integrity.
But in her theology, my survival is not righteousness. It’s rebellion.
She is still judgmental and has utter contempt for me as both a mother and as a person. Why would that be? *Please note, most of these gripes pre-date the internet and cellular tech.
- She judges me as "not Christian enough" because I don't share her love of evangelicalism. and I have chosen to allow more education, science, and reason into my world view.
- Because I have struggled with depression, and my doctor and I thought it was a good idea to medicate me, my mother believes me to be "demonically influenced" by a medication that simply increases the level of available serotonin in my body.
- Despite proof otherwise, my mother denies the abuse I went through in a marriage #1.
- Because of these false beliefs that she holds, she believes I cannot be a good mother and has for over 15 years spoken so poorly about me to my daughters and others that have listened that she has poisoned the wells in those relationships with my daughters. (I didn't find out until 2 days ago this was going on)
- 23 years ago I had a child out of wedlock - I feel like I am trapped in Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlett Letter, my mother clearly sees a scarlet "A" when she looks at me.
- I chose to elope with my second husband - again, grown ups get to do that.
- I am not sure if this is aggravated by her political beliefs (MAGA).
- When she doesn’t get the “joyful moments” that she requires, she tends to blame me regardless of who had agency in the situation.
- If you have any familiarity with family system theory, you get what is happening here.
My mother’s way of communicating violates core communication ethics, such as:
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Respect for autonomy
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Commitment to truth
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Non-manipulation
Ethical communication must never use guilt, shame, or fear as primary tools. That’s not dialogue—that’s coercion.
Between Sunday and Wednesday I began to hear "through the grapevine" that my mother was telling others, including my own children that my father died disappointed in me. This seemed odd, especially because of the request she made of me when notifying my children.
I can't think of anything more hurtful you could say to a child who just lost their father.
In an effort to clear up what I thought was some kind of mistake, I put the receipts of my chat with Emma into text and sent it to her. Here is what I sent to my mother:
"I am hearing that my dad died believing i never contacted Emma. I just want to provide the receipts to show I did. I never got any acknowledgement when I reached out to her (and I added the receipts.)"
If you want to read more about this situation, please visit this post: https://coplingshobbithole.blogspot.com/2025/07/grandmothers-mothers-and-daughters.html
The question then becomes, how could my father have been disappointed in me, if my mother knew I had reached out? The only way that could be true would be if she withheld this information from him. When she was gossiping about me, she definitely didn't include that detail. She painted the situation as though I had just abandoned my daughter.
The grief of my father's passing is already such a weight, and navigating these family dynamics on top of it feels unbearable. I am trying to honor my father, protect my heart and my children, and deal with someone who seems more upset about being "found out" at this point than sorry for the hurt that was caused. That’s a lot to hold at once.
I was careful, honest, and respectful in how I approached it. Wanting to clear up a misunderstanding about my relationship with my father isn’t petty—it’s love. It’s loyalty. It’s pain trying to find peace. At this point, my mother texts me the following text that as an answer. It seems to have an opening line of "your father wasn't disappointed in you", but then goes on to list all the ways I disappointed him? Are you as confused as I am yet?
"Your dad did not die disappointed in you. He grieved the loss of joyful occasions with you! You married Manny on the sly - no conversation from you about it. We find out through a waitress. You move out with Emma while we are at church. Again no conversation and we don't know where you are either with our grandchild. You marry Brian without telling us. Twice you deprive us the joy of one of your major events in life and to be a part of it. Dad didn't know Steven even existed and you give him a birthday card from him. Again no conversation about who he is to you and your dad was hurt to just have that Thrown at him so awkwardly. He was so proud of you getting your masters degree and once again no invite for us to be part of that joy. So when Emma had her baby and it's a time a girl needs her mom most. Yes it disappointed him that you missed out on a major family event. I'm sorry this is being g brought up now and I dont understand why it should. I am struggling with your dad's passing and wanted you to be a part of this. If this isn't possible for you, I understand. We can manage. Your dad was a very loving and forgiving man. There was no lingering hurt or disappointment in his heart towards you."
- This is a bizarre answer to the question I asked.
- It doesn't answer the question I asked.
- Why on earth would you choose now to go on some "this is your life" tour of things you think I did wrong over 20 years ago and bring all of it into the present?
- Isn't there enough here to deal with?
- ALL of these instances are while I am an adult, with an adult life my mother should stop meddling in.
This text removes all of the context of the situations, and believe me, there was context. Since this is the absolute last word I ever plan to have on this, lets examine my mother's accusations in the text:
- You married Manny on the sly - I am a grown adult, we get to do that. Normal families don't hold grudges about it for 30 years. Also, nothing was done on the sly, we didn't even have a wedding. It's not that dramatic.
- You move out with Emma while we are at church. -
- You managed to send Stephanie back to her abuser while I was unable to fight back (my father had no idea)j
- You spent my whole pregnancy with Emma telling me you were going to force me to give her up for adoption so a "nice family" could have her.
- You told me i didn't deserve her.
- MY DAD had to step in and get loud for you to drop it. He told you to stop meddling.
- Since you already gotten rid of one child, why wouldn't I see that as a threat?
- Of course I moved in secret.
- I left not because I was reckless, but because my child’s life—and my own—was worth more than surviving under someone else’s shame.
I know that love doesn't come with ultimatums.
That a child is not a mistake to erase—but a soul to cherish.
That motherhood is not only about carrying life—but about protecting it from harm, even when that harm comes wrapped in family.
I didn’t leave because I hated my mother.
I left because she left me, emotionally—
because she traded support for judgment, and presence for punishment.
I was not irresponsible.
I was wise, and right to go.
I had to be the adult in the room when my mother chose control.
I had to be the protector when my mother chose pride.
No one gets to rewrite that.
- You managed to send Stephanie back to her abuser while I was unable to fight back (my father had no idea)j
- You spent my whole pregnancy with Emma telling me you were going to force me to give her up for adoption so a "nice family" could have her.
- You told me i didn't deserve her.
- MY DAD had to step in and get loud for you to drop it. He told you to stop meddling.
- Since you already gotten rid of one child, why wouldn't I see that as a threat?
- Of course I moved in secret.
- I left not because I was reckless, but because my child’s life—and my own—was worth more than surviving under someone else’s shame.
I know that love doesn't come with ultimatums.
That a child is not a mistake to erase—but a soul to cherish.
That motherhood is not only about carrying life—but about protecting it from harm, even when that harm comes wrapped in family.
I didn’t leave because I hated my mother.
I left because she left me, emotionally—
because she traded support for judgment, and presence for punishment.
I was not irresponsible.
I was wise, and right to go.
I had to be the adult in the room when my mother chose control.
I had to be the protector when my mother chose pride.
No one gets to rewrite that.
I know where God was in my story—not in the voices of those who shamed me, but in the grace that held me when no one else did.
She has spent years, unbeknownst to me, working to divide me from the people I love most: my children, my extended family, my peace. Through gossip, selective storytelling, and spiritual judgment, she’s created a distorted image of me to others—one in which I am rebellious, broken, or unsafe, simply because I have chosen truth, healing, and wholeness.
My choices—to leave abuse, to pursue education, to work full-time, to raise my children with integrity, to live as a whole woman and not a silenced one—have been viewed not as things we should celebrate; but as threats to a worldview that demands female submission at all costs.
Who on earth spends this much time upset that their child is successfully living an adult life?
8 years ago I was a stay at home mom without a job.
- I picked myself up, got my bachelor's
- I Got a job and was promoted through ranks faster than anyone would have expected
- I reached the terminal end of my job in 5 years
- I put myself through my Master's program by working 3 jobs
- I Realized my dream of becoming a professor full time
Even if it felt like the whole world had forgotten you.
Even if your husband left for weeks and didn’t call.
Even if the house stayed quiet except for the sound of babies needing you.
Even if your own body began to betray you, aching in ways you didn’t have the words for.
I want you to know: I see her. I see you.
You were not crazy.
You were not weak.
You were not dramatic.
You were a woman who had been abandoned too many times.
By partners.
By family.
By systems that should have caught you when you fell.
No one should have to raise babies like that—without support, without rest, while sick, while terrified that even your death would go unnoticed for days.
That your babies, who couldn't care for themselves would be abandoned.
That fear you carried? That haunting image of your babies left behind in silence?
That wasn’t just anxiety.
That was the voice of postpartum depression and a life built on being unseen.
And still, you showed up. Not as perfection, just as you.
You wiped little mouths and found snacks and rocked tiny bodies when your joints were on fire and your heart was cracked.
You smiled through fog.
You gave your babies safety, when no one gave it to you.
You were their sun.
And the fact that you survived that season?
That you’re still here to tell your story?
That is nothing short of a miracle.
I know you didn’t get the support you needed then.
But you get to have it now.
You get to mother yourself with gentleness, rest, and truth.
You get to speak out loud what you kept quiet for years.
You deserved better.
And you are becoming the woman who will make sure that future you and everyone under your care gets better.
Your children didn’t grow up with a perfect mother.
They grew up with a fighter.
And that matters more than they will ever know.
I’m so proud of you.
With every ounce of compassion,
Your Future Self, who sees everything you carried—
and loves you for all of it
This family system is poison
Instead of compassion, it offers condemnation.
Instead of support, it offers shame.
This belief system has done damage—not just to me, but also to my children.
And my protector is gone.
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After much reflection, I’ve chosen not to attend the public service. I was never actually included in any of the planning, and only ambiguously invited so maybe this is presumptuous of me to think anyone needs my rsvp. My mother is gatekeeping the event from me.
This, mixed with the nature of the betrayal that was revealed this week, is going to make it impossible. The load is too heavy to bear. It is unfortunate that all of these seeds of division she has sown over YEARS have suddenly grown a bumper crop of consequences. But I didn't plant that, and I am not responsible for it.
My mother wants control above all things, she is welcome to the control. I am stepping out of this system. For me, this is not a rejection of family, but a protection of my spirit. My father, if he knew what was happening would have protected me. Protecting myself in his absence, in many ways, this is the most honest, sacred tribute I can offer.
I want to name what has been true for me from the perspective of someone who studies human communication:
In this family, language has too often been used as a weapon—framed as scripture, concern, or tradition, but functioning to control, silence, and scapegoat. I have lived through a system where I was not invited into true conversation, but cast into roles that diminished who I am and punished any deviation from expectation.
Peace is not the absence of conflict—it is the presence of integrity. And so I am choosing integrity. I am choosing voice over silence, connection over compliance, and truth over image. I will no longer participate in patterns that ask me to betray myself in order to maintain the appearance of harmony.
My decision to step back is not rooted in hate or punishment. It is rooted in my refusal to accept erasure as love. It is rooted in my right to speak plainly, live honestly, and protect my peace. This, too, is a kind of love. A hard, necessary, freeing kind.
I am choosing to release the roles that have cost me my peace, my voice, and my wholeness. I am no longer available to be an emotional sponge, your quiet mirror, your justification, your secret holder, or your apology.
Here is what I am choosing instead:
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I will speak truthfully—even when it is inconvenient.
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I will protect my nervous system, my health, and my spirit and that of my children.
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I will only engage where respect is mutual and connection is honest.
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I will no longer contort myself to avoid your discomfort.
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I will love myself loudly and without shame.
These boundaries are not punishments. They are an act of spiritual hygiene and self-respect. I am not closing the door. I am simply placing it on hinges—and I am the one who decides when and if it opens.
You are free to believe what you need to believe about me. I will not argue. I will not beg to be understood. I am not here to play a role in someone else's denial.
I am here to live—fully, freely, and honestly.
This decision wasn’t made lightly. Grief is as individual as love, and for me, the most meaningful way to honor my father under these circumstances is privately and in peace. I plan to watch all the action movies we shared over the years, do puzzles, and take in an Astros game in his honor.
I believe in a God of truth. A God who is near to the brokenhearted. A God who does not confuse obedience with silence or love with control. My mother has told many stories about me, but I am learning to tell my own:
I am not dangerous; I have been made dangerous by surviving what was meant to break me.
I am not disobedient; I have followed the call to truth and dignity even when it cost me everything.
I am not lost; I have found myself by walking out of shadows and into healing.
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good—to accomplish what is now being done.” (Genesis 50:20)
You threw me into darkness, so I became the darkness. I am no longer afraid of the wilderness. I have learned that God walks with the misunderstood.
I grieve the loss of my father. But I also grieve the theft of this sacred moment by someone who has used power and religion to harm me. I may not be welcome at her table, but I am beloved at God’s. And I will not let this story end in my silence.
This narrative has been written about me by others for far too long. But I am the one living it. And I deserve to tell the truth—not for revenge, but for myself.
- I will not engage in conflict where lies are denied or minimized.
- I will not allow spiritual language to justify harm to me.
- I will not engage in any conversations that do not include repair for the damage that has been done
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