Ex-people pleasers, what made you stop pleasing people?
The Conspiracy and the Revelation of Trauma
Later that night, after we got home, I sat at our kitchen table staring at my phone. The screen showed dozens of messages for my mom, each one more desperate than the last.
The most recent one read, “I’m coming over tomorrow. We need to talk about this rationally.”
My stomach dropped. The thought of facing her again made me physically ill. Ben noticed my expression and took the phone from my hand, his face dark and as he scrolled through the messages.
“You don’t have to see her,” he said firmly. “We can change the locks, get cameras, whatever you need.”
I shook my head.
“That won’t stop her. You don’t know her like I do,” and he didn’t.
My mom had this way of worming into people’s lives, making herself seem reasonable to outsiders while terrorizing me in private. She was charming when she needed to be convincing.
She managed to turn family members against me before when I didn’t do what she wanted. Her manipulation tactics were refined to an art form over decades. I grabbed my phone back and pulled up my contacts. I scrolled until I found Aunt Susan, my mom’s sister.
They hadn’t spoken in years, and I’d always wondered why. Maybe it was time to find out. Perhaps understanding my mother’s past would help me secure my daughter’s future.
“What are you doing?” then asked as I hit the call button.
“Getting answers,” I replied.
As the phone began to ring, I stared at the coffee table in my aunt Susan’s living room, trying to process what she just told me. I spent the last hour listening to her explain my mom’s childhood, and holy crap, it was messed up.
“So, my grandmother actually locked her in closets?” I asked, still struggling to believe it.
Aunt Susan nodded grimly.
“Your grandmother was severely mentally ill. She’d locked your mom away for days, telling her children were curses.” “Your grandfather wasn’t much better.”
I sat back on her floral couch, mind racing. Susan had agreed to meet us the day after my confrontation with my mom. When I called her, she’d gone quiet for a moment before asking if I was sitting down.
“Now I understood why. That still doesn’t excuse how she treated me,” I said, rubbing my belly protectively.
“Of course not,” Susan replied. “It’s why I cut contact.”
She refused therapy, refused to acknowledge the trauma, but it might help you understand. Ben squeezed my hand.
“So, you think this is why she hates children so much? Because of her own childhood.”
Susan nodded. She swore she’d never have kids and she got pregnant with you. Your father talked her out of abortion, promising to be the primary caregiver when he died in that car accident.
“I was four,” I whispered. “I barely remember him.”
After that, she just checked out, hired help, pushed you away. I tried to intervene, but she threatened restraining orders. The truth landed like a brick in my stomach.
No wonder my childhood memories of her were so cold. She’d been damaged, broken by her own parents, and instead of healing, she just passed that trauma right along to me. I felt a kick inside my belly and placed my hand over the spot.
My daughter would never experience that cycle.
“She’s been texting me non-stop,” I said. “Says she’s coming over today to fix this problem.”
Susan’s expression hardened.
“Patricia always thought she could control everything. Don’t let her anywhere near you.”
We left with Susan’s promise to support us and a folder full of childhood photos she’d saved of me. Once my mother had discarded as we drove home, I scrolled through increasingly desperate texts from my mom.
The last one sent chills down my spine.
“If you won’t handle this, I will.”
When we got home, I noticed a familiar car parked down the street.
“That’s my mom’s car,” I told Ben, panic rising in my throat.
“Stay in the car,” Ben said, suddenly alert. “I’ll check the house first.”
I clutched his arm.
“No, we should call the police.”
“Let me just make sure she’s actually broken in before we do that.”
He insisted. I watched nervously as Ben approached our front door, which appeared undamaged.
He used his key, disappeared inside, then reappeared moments later, giving me a thumbs up. I exhaled shakily and waddled up our walkway.
Our house seemed untouched, but I felt uneasy.
“Why is her car here if she’s not?”
Ben locked the door behind us.
“Maybe she’s walking around the neighborhood. I’ll check the backyard.”
While Ben checked outside, I wandered into our kitchen for water. That’s when I noticed it. The drawer where we kept important documents was slightly ajar. I pulled it open and immediately felt sick.
My prenatal vitamins were there, but the seal was broken and they looked different.
“Ben,” I yelled, panic rising. “Something’s wrong with my vitamins.”
He rushed in, took one look at the bottle, and grabbed it.
“Don’t touch them. Did you take any today?”
“No, I forgot this morning,” I said, suddenly grateful for my pregnancy brain.
“Do you think she?”
The doorbell rang, making us both jump. Through the peephole, I saw my mother, smiling pleasantly like nothing was wrong.
Ben pocketed the vitamin bottle and opened the door just to crack, blocking her view of me.
“Patricia, this isn’t a good time,” he said firmly.
“Nonsense,” she replied, her voice sickly sweet. “I brought lunch for my daughter. We need to talk things through rationally.”
I stepped into view, keeping my distance.
“Mom, did you break into our house?”
Her smile faltered for just a second.
“What? Of course not. The spare key is still where you always keep it under the turtle figurine.”
“I just wanted to tidy up before you got home.”
Ben tensed beside me.
“We never told you about that key.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. My mom’s expression shifted, the pleasant mask slipping to reveal something colder underneath.
“Well, Jennifer must have mentioned it. Get out!” I said, suddenly feeling stronger than I had in years. “And give me back your key, sweetie. You’re being emotional. The hormones now,” I shouted, surprising even myself.
Reluctantly, she reached into her purse and placed a key on our entryway table.
“I’m just trying to help you. That baby will ruin your life just like you ruined mine.”
Ben stepped forward.
“Leave or we called the police.”
After she left, I collapsed onto our couch, shaking.
“What was in those vitamins? Do you think she tampered with them?”
Ben called his brother, a pharmacist, who told us to bring the pills in immediately. I called my OB while Ben drove, explaining the situation. She agreed to see me right away.
The next 24 hours were a blur of doctor’s appointments and police reports. The pills had indeed been tampered with, replaced with something that could have caused a miscarriage. The police took statements, but said they needed more evidence to arrest her.
Their advice: restraining order, security system, new locks. We did all that, plus had cameras installed the next day. I spent hours scrolling through pregnancy forms, terrified of what could have happened if I had taken those pills.
Ben insisted on checking all our food and drinks, worried she might have tampered with something else while inside our house. That night, as we lay in bed, both too anxious to sleep. My phone buzzed. A text from my mom.
“I was only trying to save you from ruining your life. When will you understand? I know what’s best.”
I showed Ben, who immediately took the phone to add it to our police report file. When he came back, his expression was grim.
“Your mom’s car just drove by slowly.”
“How do you know?” I asked, panic rising.
He pointed to his phone, showing the security camera footage. There was her distinctive blue sedan, creeping past her house at 1:00 a.m.
We barely slept. The next morning, Ben installed additional locks while I called my boss to request working from home indefinitely. I explained the situation, leaving out the most disturbing details.
My supervisor, Barbara, was surprisingly understanding, even offering to adjust deadlines for my upcoming maternity leave. Just as I hung up, our doorbell rang. Through the camera, I saw my cousin Mark, my mom’s nephew.
Ben opened the door cautiously.
“Hey,” Mark said awkwardly. “Aunt Patricia asked me to give you this.”
He handed over an envelope. “She said it’s important baby stuff.”
“Did she tell you what’s happening?” I asked.
Mark shrugged.
“Just that you’re pregnant and she’s excited to be a grandmother. Wanted to give you some financial help.”
I almost laughed at how successfully my mother had maintained her facade with the extended family.
“Mark, she tried to hurt my baby. We filed a police report.”
His eyes widened.
“What? No way. Aunt Patricia wouldn’t.”
“She pushed me hard when I told her I was pregnant. She broke into her house and tampered with my prenatal vitamins.”
Mark looked genuinely shocked.
“Holy I had no idea.”
After he left, promising to keep his distance from my mom, we carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a check for $20,000 and a note for the abortion and therapy afterward.
“Last chance.”
I ripped up both, hands shaking with rage.
“She’s not giving up. We need to document everything,” Ben said, taking photos of the torn check note before throwing them away. “Build a case.”
The next week was relatively quiet. Too quiet. My mom’s messages stopped completely. Her card didn’t appear on our security footage.
I almost started to relax, focusing instead on setting up the nursery and attending birthing classes. But Ben remained vigilant, checking our security system multiple times daily.
Then my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize.
Hesitantly, I answered, “Hello, is this Jennifer Williams?”
A professional sounding woman asked, “Yes, who’s this?”
“This is Taylor from Child Protective Services. We’ve received a concerning report about your living conditions and wanted to schedule a home visit.”
My blood ran cold.
“What report?”
“We received anonymous information that you’re using illegal substances during pregnancy and living in unsanitary conditions.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“That’s completely false. My mother is trying to”
“We’re required to investigate all reports, Miss Williams. We can come tomorrow at 2 p.m.”
After hanging up, I called our lawyer immediately. He assured us this was likely just a formality and offered to be present for the visit.
Still, I spent the rest of the day cleaning our already clean house, terrified of what might happen if CPS believed my mother’s lies.
The CPS visit itself was brief and anticlimactic. Taylor seemed professional, but unimpressed by the obviously false report. She commented on how well prepared we were for the baby and left after about 20 minutes.
Our lawyer seemed satisfied but warned us this might not be my mother’s last attempt. He was right. The following week, my boss called me into an unexpected video meeting.
Looking uncomfortable, she explained that someone had sent an anonymous email to HR claiming I was stealing company property to sell online.
“Bara, you know that’s not true,” I said, fighting back tears.
“Of course I do,” she assured me. “But HR has to investigate. They’ll need to check your work laptop. I surrendered my computer for investigation, knowing they’d find nothing but increasingly fearful of what my mother might try next.”
The company cleared me 3 days later, but the damage to my reputation had been done. Co-workers gave me strange looks during video meetings, and I heard whispers had started about what else I might be hiding.
“She’s trying to isolate you,” Ben said that night as I cried in frustration. “Make you dependent on her.”
“It’s working,” I admitted. “I’m scared to leave the house, scared to talk to anyone.”
“What if she contacts my friends next? My doctor,”
Ben held me tightly.
“We won’t let her win.”
I tried to believe him, but my mother’s invisible presence seemed to be everywhere. I jumped at every phone notification, flinched at unexpected knocks. The pregnancy, now in its seventh month, was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and the stress wasn’t helping.
