Something I need to tell you

Dear Aunt,

I am sending this as an email because I need a clear place to say what I have been carrying for a long time. I will use “Aunt” here because that is what you are, even though, for many months, you have not acted like someone who cares gently for us. I will still show you respect in this message, because respect is all I can offer if nothing else remains. I know you may not answer. I know it may be ignored. Still, I need to be honest.

For years I felt something very important was missing at home: respect. Respect works both ways—child to parent, and parent to child. It is not only earned, it is also given. People deserve to be treated kindly and not looked down on because of how they look or where they come from. People feel pain. You did not see that pain in us. You did not care enough to protect our feelings. That hurt a lot.

I hate how every time I tried to say something different, you shouted, cut me off, and made me feel small. I hated that if my ideas did not match yours, I became the fool. I could not be myself around you. I was expected to be your little copy. I am not a copy, and I never will be. You did not teach me to think. You demanded I do everything exactly as you wanted, and when I made small mistakes, you punished me. It was easy to punish a small child when the uncle was away. It felt like it happened every day. You called it discipline. I called it pain. Hitting is not teaching. It breaks a child. For a long time I hated the person I had become because of that. Now I hate the person who made me that way.

I have learned to put myself first. I do not live to make you proud. I am tired of trying to win your approval. I wasted years seeking it and you never showed real pride. If you were proud, you never said so. Now, I do things for myself. I will not be someone I am not just to please you. I will not pretend everything is fine when it is not. When a person clearly does not want you in their life, sometimes it is better to leave. I will not wear a mask and act like we are okay when we are not.

You used words as weapons. Names like “useless” and “worthless” were thrown at me. Those words hurt more than any slap. After all those years, how do you expect me to accept presents and pretend nothing happened? I cannot. I will not lie to myself or to you. I refuse to pretend we are close when your words have cut me so deep.

You turned what used to be a home into a place of fear. You always insisted you were right and no one else could be. You wanted everyone to obey you. You wanted control—over feelings, money, and choices. You told us you were different, even special, but your behavior was just pride and selfishness. Calling others “crazy” or “stupid” because they think differently is childish. It is not strength.

You never admitted mistakes. If anything went wrong, you found someone else to blame. You “always did everything perfectly,” you said. You never apologized. You never allowed a hole in your pride. Even when it hurt us, you could not say, “I’m sorry.” You would rather push others down than look at yourself.

You changed my sister, too. You pushed her until she became just like you—self-centered and loud, proud without reason. You turned her into a mirror of your own voice. She repeats your words and tells on us. She became your little helper. That hurts me more than I can say.

Maybe you have not read this far. Maybe you never read things fully. I have rarely had your attention. If you are reading now, I will say: I do not think you will change. Your pride is too large. You are too convinced of your own truth to look inside and see what your actions have done. That is the worst part.

This email is not written from hate. It is filled with deep disappointment and pain. I wanted you to face what you did to us. I wanted you to understand the ways you used fear instead of care. I wanted you to see how your control and harsh words broke a home. But even as I write, I am afraid you will read this and twist it into me being the bad one again. That has happened so many times.

When you read this, I will have already sent the email. I may have received a quick answer—sharp, angry, or distant. That would not surprise me. I have cried many times while writing these lines. I did not try to hurt you with them. I only wanted to tell the truth about what happened and how it made me feel.

I am trying to move forward. I have learned to care for myself. I have learned to stand up. I have tools now that you never gave me: patience, strength, and the habit of choosing my own path. I still remember the scared child who hid in the corner waiting for a hand to hit her. That child is gone now. She is not coming back. That seems to make you angry, because you cannot control me the same way any more. So you use words instead.

I will end by saying this: I wish you could see how much damage was done, not to punish you, but so you might change and stop hurting others. People can grow if they look at themselves honestly. If you cannot do that, then I will protect my heart by staying away. I will keep the lessons I learned and build a life that is kinder, gentler, and braver.

If you reply with anger, I will not be surprised. If you reply with nothing, I will keep living. I do not need your permission to be whole. I only needed to say these things out loud.

Goodbye for now. I hope one day you can learn to be kinder—if not for us, then for yourself.

Sincerely,