My parents are the type of people who grew up poor and kept a lot of frugal habits but made enough that they had property investments, stocks in several large companies, two holiday homes, and enough bad art to make me hate the sight of bronze. Even so, they’d cook with gone-off food. (I still gag at the smell of fish, fresh or otherwise.) They refuse to spend on necessities. (The radiator in your bedroom broke and it’s below freezing? Live with it!) And they refuse to spend on actual doctors, opting instead to attempt to treat the symptoms of my ADHD with quack treatments like acupuncture and something I’m pretty sure was thinly veiled hypnosis.
Basically, they do everything they can to appear rich while acting like misers to do so.
This all becomes relevant due to my wildly different nature as someone who finds friends in all sorts of places. Some have criminal backgrounds, some have neurodivergent traits, and some have the audacity to be from other nations!
My mother is the worst offender by far. I could tell tale after tale about her abuse, bigotry, and delusions, but the two that I’ll stick to are as follows.
My first romantic partner was a girl I met in a mathematics grind. She was tomboyish, practical, and well-cultured, and her parents actually were wealthy, but they appeared poor due to living to save up for a country house and grounds that they’ve since bought.
She was also from Poland.
As I talked about her to my mother and said I was head over heels, she accepted that my crush was tomboyish, praised her practicality, and then did a complete about-face when I mentioned that I think she said that she was from Poland. Why?
Mother: “You never know what kind of people they’ll turn out to be, so be careful.”
I don’t think she ever got over that, to be honest, and she’s still upset that our break-up was easy and clean so we’re best friends to the day.
You’d think that would be bad, but my current boyfriend got it worse.
Somehow, my mother got it into her head that this poor man wasn’t good enough for me, and she desperately needed to prove that there was something wrong with him — something, anything to justify splitting us apart.
First, there came:
Mother: “Well, you know his parents work in the public sector.”
As if I cared in the slightest what his parents did! Then, there was:
Mother: “It’s so nice of us to treat him to dinners and a week in the countryside since he can’t afford holidays and pizza!”
Like he’d never left his city and only ate porridge and stew. And then, there was:
Mother: “Are you sure he doesn’t hang around with the wrong crowd?”
That was the strangest one to my mind since the only crowd [Boyfriend] hung around with was me and my (by that point) ex, to whom I’d introduced him.
In her crazed lust for vindication, my mother finally crossed a line. She invited us both to holiday with her and my father down on an island I still dream about. She also invited her sister who’s a special needs teacher to join us, too.
This was all so that, without telling us, my mother could get [Boyfriend] diagnosed with autism. Upon finding out, my mother’s sister balked and told us flatly what my mother had tried to do before conveniently cutting her holiday short three days early!
Somehow, having lived with all the other things that my mother did that were far worse than this, I didn’t cut off contact with her. I did move out that year to move in with [Boyfriend], into a crappy flat with what little money I can save and earn with my hobbies and not enough space to hide a cat, much less swing one. Surprise, surprise, I’ve felt happier, healthier, and wealthier than I ever did under my parents’ roof.
I count my blessings that the few upsides of the childhood they gave me meant that I spent time abroad to learn about other cultures, that I learned hobbies and skills I could never have afforded living as I am, and that I’m not racist, abusive, or crazy like they are!
