My parents and brother refused to take my 12-year-old daughter to the emergency room after she broke her leg…

She’d returned to soccer, her coach easing her back with modified training sessions before clearing her for full participation. The emotional healing took longer for both of us. Grace still occasionally had nightmares about being left alone while injured.

Certain triggers, a particular tone of voice, the smell of pine forests, even the sound of scrabble tiles clicking together, could momentarily transport her back to that painful weekend. But with therapy and time, these moments grew less frequent and less intense. For me, the journey involved unlearning a lifetime of conditioned responses.

I found myself anticipating criticism that no longer came, defending decisions no one was questioning, apologizing for taking up space I had every right to occupy. Breaking these habits required conscious effort and constant self-awareness. My parents hadn’t given up entirely.

Every few weeks, a card would arrive for Grace, always cheerful, always avoiding any mention of what had happened, always signed with love from grandma and grandpa. I let Grace decide whether to read them. Usually, she didn’t.

They still don’t get it, do they? She observed one day, holding an unopened birthday card from them. They think they can just pretend nothing happened. Some people never develop the capacity to truly acknowledge when they’ve hurt others, I explained.

It threatens their self-image too much. That’s sad, Grace said, with genuine compassion that amazed me. It must be lonely, never being able to say you’re sorry.

Jason had apparently moved on completely. According to my Aunt Eleanor, he told extended family that I had mental health issues and had cut everyone off for no reason. Few believed him, especially after Eleanor quietly shared the actual circumstances, but it didn’t matter.

Jason’s inability to acknowledge his role in harming Grace only confirmed we were better off without him. The most persistent attempts at contact came from my mother. She left messages with mutual friends, sent letters to my school, even approached Grace’s soccer coach at a game.

Though thankfully, the coach, aware of the situation, politely but firmly refused to get involved. My mother’s messages always followed the same pattern. She missed us, she loved us, she didn’t understand why I was being so extreme and couldn’t we just move past this unpleasantness? Not once did she acknowledge what they had done or offer a genuine apology.

I maintained the boundaries I’d established. The legal letters had done their job. None of them came to our home or tried to contact Grace directly, but the emotional campaign continued with my parents positioning themselves as wounded victims to anyone who would listen.

Through the adult children of Toxic Parents support group, I learned this was a common tactic, what some members called the missing missing reasons. My parents genuinely couldn’t comprehend why I had cut contact because acknowledging the real reason would require them to see themselves as people who had harmed a child. That recognition was simply not compatible with their self-image…