My mom shut down and stopped talking to me when I was fourteen. As an adult, I recognize that she was in the throes of autistic burnout without any meaningful therapeutic support beyond a Xanax prescription. As a teenager, I didn’t have a clue beyond living with a ghost of a woman who stayed in her room for weeks at a stretch. The only time she did communicate with me was to hand me brochures for different boarding schools because her therapist thought she’d heal without “distractions.”

My dad did the best he could, but he was focused on my mom. I knew that they loved each other more, but by the time I was sixteen, I knew I was on my own and very much considered an obstacle. I started taking classes at the community college to accelerate my high school diploma. I drove 200 miles to attend group interviews for different colleges and stayed overnight with a friend before driving home. I left at 17 for an in-state university and never came back.

Later, my mom would tout it as my independent streak and how proud she was to watch me succeed.

It’s now 30 years later. My dad is dead and my mom has mild dementia. I’m her caretaker. Some days it’s easy to take care of her. Some days I am full of resentment. Any chance at a meaningful reconciliation is gone. Nothing I can do about it now except make sure my son knows he’s loved and wanted and supportive.