When Portrayed Concern is Actually Control

As a grandmother with emergency contact privileges, I never imagined the delicate role I would have to play in the safety and well-being of my grandchildren. My daughter’s relationship with their father had long since fractured due to domestic violence, and though they were now separated, the echoes of control lingered. He still insisted that he hadn’t done anything to warrant her fear, painting himself as the concerned father.

The other night, things took a familiar turn. He contacted me, demanding to know where the children were. His frustration was palpable—he had called their mother several times, dialed the children's smart devices repeatedly, even contacted her friends. No one responded, and now he was obviously upset. His message painted a picture of an aggrieved parent: “Why was she keeping them out so late when she knows it’s their bedtime?” He punctuated this with a photo of the empty driveway, explaining how he had “just driven by” to see if they were home, but instead of them ignoring his calls like he imagined, he found them missing. He claimed he was worried, but to me, it felt like something else entirely.

Co-parenting classes are clear about this kind of situation: no dropping by unannounced, no interfering with the children's routine. When I calmly suggested that his behavior resembled stalking, he exploded. How dare I accuse him of such a thing? He was just being a “concerned father,” he said, telling me to “grow up.” I stepped away from my computer for a few minutes, and when I didn’t immediately respond, his irritation flared even more when he decided that I was ignoring him. He wasn’t just upset—he was grasping for control.

To help him understand my point, I sent him an article about stalking (What is Stalking?), but his defensiveness only grew. Now, he cites my accusation as the reason for refusing to retrieve the rest of his belongings from the house—he’s determined to justify telling his children that "mommy stole his stuff." He’s also stopped responding to co-parenting questions and refuses to acknowledge the recommended anxiety treatment for his son, claiming that he doesn’t see the anxiety that everyone else does.

The police confirmed what I already felt in my gut: his behavior was concerning. They toured the area to make sure he wasn’t around when my daughter and the children returned home and assured her that they would do another pass later in the night.

What I hadn’t fully realized until now was the power I held. By calling out behavior that, in his mind, was “nothing wrong,” I had disrupted his narrative. His insistence on being the concerned father was, in reality, another form of control. And for my grandchildren’s safety and my daughter’s peace of mind, I had to stand firm, even when that meant enduring his anger.

But with that stand came something unexpected—freedom. Freedom from his grasp, from his manipulation, from the constant walking on eggshells. By naming his behavior for what it was, I found a sense of liberation not only for my daughter and grandchildren but for myself. The hold he had over our lives, the subtle manipulation disguised as concern, began to dissolve the moment we saw it for what it was.

Domestic violence doesn’t always look like bruises or yelling. Sometimes, it’s an empty driveway photo, a barrage of missed calls, or a refusal to engage in peaceful co-parenting. Sometimes, it’s the subtle grip of control disguised as care. And calling it out—naming it for what it is—can feel like a small victory in a much larger fight, one that leads to an even greater freedom.