So yeah, this is my mom. And no, the note isn’t a joke.
Not to me, anyway.
It started with something small—she made a “funny” Facebook post about me leaving dishes in the sink when I visited. Got a bunch of laughing reacts from her friends. I ignored it. Then a week later, she posted a meme about adult children being freeloaders and tagged me directly. I was literally at work when my phone blew up with people laughing and commenting like it was all in good fun.
I texted her and asked her to stop. She said, “Lighten up. It’s just family humor.”
Except it kept happening. At Easter dinner, she pulled out a card that said, “Congrats on surviving another year without a real job!” in front of my entire extended family. I work freelance. I pay my bills. But to her, because it’s not a 9-to-5, it’s fair game.
So I did something I probably shouldn’t have: I posted a thread. Just screenshots of her “jokes.” No commentary. I didn’t name-call or drag her. I just let people see it.
It went semi-viral.
And then this photo showed up in my inbox, from her.
No context. No “love you.” Just the photo. The note.
“You’ll pay for it!”
I honestly didn’t know if I should laugh or block her. My siblings are split—some say she’s embarrassed and lashing out. Others say I did go too far airing family stuff online.
But right as I was about to respond with something neutral, something to smooth it over, she texted again. And this time… she said something that made me stop cold.
“Your father used to do the same thing to me,” she wrote. “He thought it was funny to humiliate me in public. I guess I learned more from him than I realized.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, everything felt bigger than just me and her. This wasn’t just some petty back-and-forth over social media posts—it was generations of pain spilling into our relationship. I sat there staring at the screen, trying to process what she’d said. Was this why she always teased me? Why she seemed so determined to make jokes at my expense, even when they clearly hurt?
I decided to call her instead of texting back. Voice-to-voice felt safer somehow, less likely to spiral into another misunderstanding. When she answered, her tone was sharp but tired. “What?” she snapped before I could even say hello.
“Mom,” I began carefully, “can we talk about your message?”
There was silence on the other end for a moment, long enough that I wondered if she’d hung up. Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know why I said that. Maybe because… well, maybe because it’s true.”
We spent the next hour talking—not arguing, not snapping, just talking. She told me stories about how Dad used to mock her weight, her cooking, her choices, always under the guise of “just kidding.” How his friends would laugh along, and how eventually, she stopped inviting them over altogether. But instead of learning how not to treat someone, she admitted, she’d internalized it. “If he could ridicule me and still love me, then maybe it wasn’t so bad,” she said quietly. “And now look at me—I’m doing the same damn thing to you.”
Her honesty caught me off guard. For years, I’d built up walls against her teasing, telling myself she didn’t mean anything by it. But hearing her admit that she knew exactly where it came from—and that she hated herself for it—was almost harder than dealing with the jokes themselves.
“I never wanted to be like him,” she added, her voice breaking. “But here I am.”
That night, after we hung up, I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was how much energy I’d wasted being angry at her, when really, we were both stuck in patterns neither of us had chosen. Her actions weren’t excusable, but they were understandable. And maybe, just maybe, we could break the cycle together.
A few days later, Mom called me again. This time, she sounded lighter. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About what you posted online. You were right to call me out. What I did—it wasn’t okay. Even if it felt normal to me, it wasn’t fair to you.”
I blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said firmly. “I owe you an apology. A real one. Not just some half-hearted ‘sorry.’ I want to make things better between us. If you’ll let me.”
I agreed to meet her for coffee the following weekend. Sitting across from her at the café, I braced myself for awkwardness, but it never came. Instead, she handed me a small notebook. “This is for you,” she said. “It’s my promise to do better.”
Inside were handwritten pages detailing every incident she remembered embarrassing me—from the Facebook memes to the birthday cards. Beside each entry, she’d written reflections on why it was wrong and how she planned to handle similar situations differently in the future. On the last page, she’d scrawled, “Love doesn’t mean making someone feel small.”
Tears pricked my eyes as I flipped through the pages. “You didn’t have to do this,” I whispered.
“I did,” she replied. “Because you deserve better. And so does everyone else who might get caught in the crossfire of my stupid habits.”
Over the next few months, things slowly improved between us. She deleted all the old posts and memes she’d shared about me, explaining to her friends that they hadn’t been as harmless as she’d once thought. She also started attending therapy—something she confessed she’d avoided for years because “it wasn’t ladylike.” Meanwhile, I worked on letting go of my resentment, reminding myself that forgiveness isn’t a one-time act; it’s a daily practice.
One evening, while helping her clean out the attic, I stumbled upon an old shoebox labeled “Memories.” Inside were photos, letters, and trinkets from decades past. As I sifted through the contents, I found a faded Polaroid of Mom and Dad on their wedding day. They looked happy—or at least, they looked hopeful.
“Do you miss him?” I asked softly, holding up the picture.
She hesitated before answering. “Sometimes. But mostly, I miss who I thought he was. Turns out, people aren’t always what they seem.”
Her words stayed with me long after we finished tidying up. They reminded me that relationships—whether romantic, familial, or otherwise—are complicated. People carry baggage, and sometimes, they pass it on unintentionally. Breaking those cycles takes courage, effort, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.
Looking back, I realize that posting that thread wasn’t the mistake some people thought it was. Sure, it caused tension, but it also forced us to address issues we’d been ignoring for years. Without it, Mom might never have confronted her own behavior, and I might never have understood hers.
Our journey isn’t perfect—we still butt heads occasionally—but we’re learning. We’re growing. Most importantly, we’re choosing to prioritize love over pride, empathy over judgment.
If there’s one lesson I’ve taken away from all of this, it’s this: Humor can heal, but it can also harm. Before you crack a joke at someone else’s expense, ask yourself: Is it kind? Is it necessary? Does it build them up or tear them down? Because the things we say—and the way we say them—matter more than we often realize.
So, AITA? Honestly, I don’t think so. Sometimes, shining a light on uncomfortable truths is the first step toward healing. And if sharing my story helps even one person reflect on their own relationships, then it’s worth it.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please share it with others and leave a like. Let’s keep the conversation going about kindness, boundaries, and breaking unhealthy patterns. ❤️
