There is a certain kind of grief that lingers in the spaces between what was, what is, and what should have been. A grief that doesn’t soften, doesn’t fade with time, but somehow instead sharpens with every day, every realization, every moment of clarity. It is the grief of growing older and finally seeing the truth for what it is—that love, real love, should not have come with conditions. But when love is wielded like a weapon, when it comes laced with expectations and control, it can leave wounds that never quite close.

As the child of a narcissist, there comes a day when the veil lifts. When the illusion shatters and you’re left standing amidst the wreckage of what you once believed was love or caring even—because it is fair to say that a narcissist can love and feel love. As the memories rearrange themselves under the harsh light of understanding, it is like an unraveling, slow and often times excruciating. You see it then, when it does unravel, with surprising clarity. The manipulation disguised as care. The gaslighting masked as concern. The shifting goalposts, the endless hunger for control, the suffocating push and pull.

You see it, and suddenly, you are left with the aching, unrelenting truth: This should not have been your childhood, this should not be your life in the here and now.

You should be loved unconditionally. Fully. Gently. Unquestionably. You should have been and should be protected, nurtured, and to me, most importantly, seen—not made to feel like a burden, like something to fix, like a reflection of someone else’s unhealed wounds or insecurities. And yet, instead of warmth, you were met with cold indifference. Instead of safety, you learned to tiptoe, to shrink yourself, to decipher the ever-changing rules of what would make them approve, what would make them approve. You were a child forced to carry the weight of an adult’s brokenness, and no one stopped it. No one saw. Or if they did, they knowingly chose to look the other way.

Of course, growing up or dealing with that narcissist, itwasn’t always awful. That’s what makes it so dang hard to reconcile sometimes. There were good moments, weren’t there? Times when, for a fleeting second, it felt normal—felt right even. And maybe that’s what makes it hurt even more now. Because as a grown adult, and as a mother myself, we can see it all so clearly, right?! I, we, know what love is supposed to look like. We know what a child deserves. And when you hold your own child in your arms, when you give them the warmth and safety you never had, the grief sneaks in like a shadow. This is one of the many things that should have been given to you. This is what was stolen.

And then there’s the loneliness of it. The way others seem blind to it, the way they choose them, defend them, even in the face of everything. Family, friends, people who should have known better, should have seen. And maybe some of them do see, but looking too closely is far too uncomfortable. It is easier to believe the mask, to accept the convenient version of events, because acknowledging the truth means reckoning with their own complicity, and that is a burden most refuse to bear. So they close their eyes, turn away, and leave you to carry it alone.

It shouldn’t be like this.

It should have been different.

It could have been different.

If only they had chosen honesty over control. If only they had chosen love over ego. If only they had acknowledged and chosen a path to healing. If only they had been capable of looking beyond themselves, of seeing the devastation left in their wake. If only, just once, they had uttered and meant the words: I was wrong. I hurt you. I am sorry. I want to do better.

Such simple words. Such a simple thing. And yet, impossibly out of reach.

And so instead, you sit with the ache of what should have been. Some days it is a whisper, a dull hum beneath the surface. Other days it is a scream, raw and unrelenting. And with every passing moment, it does not get easier. If anything, it gets harder. Because now you know. Now you see. And the weight of that knowing is crushing.

But even in the darkness, even in the unspoken grief, there is something others cannot take from you. The truth. The understanding. The certainty that you deserved better, even if they never say it. Even if they will never give you the closure you seek. And it is highly likely, if not a sure thing, that closure is not in the cards for you.

I suppose, maybe that is where a form of healing can begin—not in someone’s apology or accountability, but in your own quiet acknowledgment of the life that should have been. In the acknowledgement that you do deserve more and better, and that you are capable of creating that life for yourself. Make the unwavering decision to build something new, something whole, without them—one where love is not conditional, where peace is not a privilege but a right. A life where you are no longer defined by another person’s absence or their damage, but by your own strength, your own healing, and the future you choose to create and live.

Vivv