I’ve lived with this secret for years. It’s a weight that presses down on my chest every single day, a constant whisper of guilt in the quiet moments. You see, I only ever wanted one thing for my child: absolute, unwavering happiness. Not just joy, not just contentment, but a profound, unshakeable happiness that would light up their entire life. That was my North Star, my sacred vow as a parent.I remember the first time I felt that protective instinct surge, really surge. They were so young, maybe five or six, and another child snatched their toy. The devastation on their face… it was a physical blow to me. From that moment, I swore I would shield them. I would smooth the path. I would ensure they never felt that kind of crushing disappointment again.
It started innocently, of course. Gentle guidance, a subtle nudge here and there. Just steering them towards the right choices, the safer paths. Helping them choose friends who were kind, subjects that would lead to a stable career, hobbies that nurtured their quiet spirit. I wasn’t controlling, I told myself. I was just facilitating. I was optimizing their life.But then they grew up. And they met someone. Someone who, to my discerning eye, was all wrong.
A smiling man on the phone | Source: Midjourney
This person, they were… vibrant. Intense. Wildly passionate about things I found impractical. They had a difficult past, a complicated family, and a future that seemed, to me, entirely uncertain. They burned with a bright, untamed fire, and while my child, my gentle, sensitive child, was utterly captivated, all I could see were SCARRED LANDSCAPES AND ASHES. I saw the potential for ruin. I saw the kind of heartbreak I had sworn, on my very soul, to prevent. They would shatter my child’s delicate heart, I just knew it. My child deserved stability, peace, a love that was calm and unwavering. Not this tempest.
I tried talking to them, of course. Soft suggestions. “Are you sure this is what you want? Their life seems so… unstructured.” My child, for the first time, pushed back. Their eyes, usually so trusting, held a defiant spark. “They make me feel alive, like no one ever has.” My heart twisted. Alive? Or just vulnerable?
Thanksgiving dinner set on the table | Source: Pexels
That’s when the line started to blur, then disintegrate completely. My good intentions became a desperate, all-consuming need. I told myself I was making the tough choices, the ones my child couldn’t make because they were too blinded by love. I began to actively interfere. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was insidious. I intercepted messages. I planted seeds of doubt, subtle, insidious comments about the other person’s reliability, their past, their fundamental inability to commit. I manipulated situations, making it seem as if the other person was unreliable, flaky, uncaring. I created a scenario where a crucial meeting was missed, then twisted the narrative so it looked like a deliberate snub.
The arguments grew. My child became withdrawn, confused. They loved this person so deeply, but I was chipping away at their trust, day by day, moment by moment. I watched their spirit dim, their laughter fade, and still, I persisted. It’s for their own good. This pain now will prevent greater pain later. I was convinced I was right. I had to be.
Grocery bags on a table | Source: Freepik
The break-up was devastating. My child was inconsolable. Days turned into weeks of tears, of silent meals, of a hollow ache that filled our home. Every sob was a knife to my own heart, yet every sob also brought a twisted sense of relief. I had saved them. I had pulled them back from the brink of what I was certain would be utter destruction. It was a victory, but it tasted like ash. I paid a price, yes, but it was worth it.
Slowly, painstakingly, my child healed. They met someone else. Someone stable. Someone kind. Someone I approved of. They built a good life, a conventional life. They got married, bought a house, had beautiful children. When I look at them now, there’s a gentle contentment in their eyes. A quiet joy. And every time I see it, I tell myself, see? I did the right thing. They’re happy. It worked.
I clung to that belief, a life raft in a sea of unspoken guilt. I watched them build this seemingly perfect life, and I took all the credit, secretly, silently, in the darkest corners of my mind.
Until last month.
A sad woman | Source: Midjourney
My child was helping me clear out the attic. Old boxes, forgotten memories. They found an old shoebox, tucked away beneath dusty blankets. “Oh,” they said, a soft gasp. “My old diary.” They smiled wistfully, a private, gentle smile. “Maybe I’ll read through this later.” They carried it away, unaware of the tremor that went through me.
Later that night, long after everyone else was asleep, a terrible, magnetic urge pulled me. Don’t. You shouldn’t. But I couldn’t resist. I crept into their room, heart pounding, a thief in the night. The diary lay on their bedside table. I opened it.
The early entries were filled with typical teenage angst, crushes, dreams. Then, the pages exploded with the name of the person I had driven away. Every page vibrated with a love so pure, so fervent, it burned through the faded ink. Every touch, every glance, every whispered secret. My child had seen a future with this person, a vibrant, unconventional, exhilarating future. They had loved them with their entire being.
A Thanksgiving spread | Source: Freepik
And then came the entries detailing the confusion, the hurt, the slow erosion of trust. My manipulations, written plain and clear through my child’s eyes. The desperate attempts to understand why the person they loved so fiercely seemed to be pulling away. The heartbreaking questions: Did I do something wrong? Are they really like everyone says?
I kept turning pages, breath held tight in my throat, my hands trembling. Past the breakup, past the tears, past the slow, forced healing. And then, there was a section, much later, near the end of the diary. Not about the new, “safe” partner, or the quiet happiness I had so carefully orchestrated.
It was a letter. Unsent. Dated years after the breakup, years after my child had moved on, built their “happy” life. It was addressed to the one I drove away.
My eyes blurred as I read the words, scrawled in an adult hand, yet echoing the pain of a lost youth:
A woman smiling | Source: Midjourney
“I wish I’d been stronger. I wish I’d trusted my gut, trusted you. Everyone told me you weren’t good enough, that you’d hurt me, that you were reckless. And when things went wrong, I believed them. I let them convince me you didn’t care, that you’d abandoned me. I tried so hard to forget you. I built a life that’s… good. It’s safe. It’s what everyone wanted for me. But sometimes, when the house is quiet, and the world is asleep, I still remember the way your hand felt in mine. I remember the way you made me laugh until my sides hurt, the way you saw the real me. And I wonder, God, I wonder. What if I’d fought harder? What if I’d never listened? What if the safest path was actually the biggest lie? I miss you. I think I’ll always miss the life we never got to live. I miss the part of myself I lost when I lost you.”
I dropped the diary. The sound echoed in the silent room, a tiny, devastating crash.
My child, the one I swore to protect from pain, the one whose life I meticulously, painstakingly orchestrated for happiness, wasn’t truly happy. Their current life, the one I created for them, was a quiet, enduring compromise. A ghost of a love they never truly recovered from. I didn’t save them from heartbreak. I condemned them to a lifetime of regret. I stole their chance at true, incandescent love, and replaced it with a pale imitation.
Food items stocked in a fridge | Source: Unsplash
I didn’t give them happiness. I GAVE THEM A LIE. And now, I have to live with the knowledge that the greatest pain in their life, the deepest ache that still lingers, wasn’t caused by the world, or by an “unsuitable” partner.
It was caused by me. Their loving parent.
Their destroyer.
