Crimsom Tide

“You need to make things right with your parents first.”

Mark’s voice was a broken record, skipping endlessly over the same scratch in the vinyl. He refused to meet Sam’s gaze.

I stood in the doorway, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. It was the same script. We were trapped in a loop of our own making, pretending that this time logic and fairness would matter. They didn’t.

I watched Sam’s shoulders slump. He had walked into this conversation with his chest open, armed with hope and a business plan, and walked out hollow. Again. We were always the ones waiting—waiting for respect, waiting for an apology, waiting for them to wake up and see the wreckage they were causing.

Later, the snow began to fall, muffling the world outside. I sat across from my friend Dana, watching the red wine swirl in my glass—a dark, crimson tide. Soft jazz filled the room, but the air between us was heavy. Dana was a new widow, and grief still clung to her like a second skin.

“I knew it as soon as I read your post,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “I never realized… I never knew you were drowning in the same waters I am.”

Dana looked out the window, her eyes glassy. “I spent twenty-two years trying to keep him afloat. Twenty-two years telling myself, ‘If I just love him enough, if I just understand him enough, the damage will heal.’” She turned back to me, a tear slipping down her cheek. “But it never did.”

“You were holding him up,” I said softly. “But he was the only one who could fix the foundation.”

“Exactly.” Her voice cracked. “His mother… she broke him. She controlled how he thought, how he felt. He spent his whole life trying to earn love from a woman who was bankrupt of it. And I spent our marriage trying to fill the cracks she left behind.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought I could save him. But in the end, I was the one going under.”

My fingers tightened around the delicate stem of the wine glass until I feared it might snap.

“That is my nightmare,” I whispered. “That I’ll wake up one day and realize I spent my entire life trying to undo what Susan did to Sam. It terrifies me, Dana. Because she will never change. She’s incapable of seeing the bruise she leaves on people.”

“They never admit they’re wrong,” Dana said, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “They break their children and then act shocked when they collapse.”

I stared into the wine, the liquid reflecting the firelight. The old Robin Williams quote echoed in my mind, no longer just words, but a terrifying reality: The worst thing in life isn’t ending up all alone. It’s ending up with people who make you feel all alone.

I looked at Dana, then at the snow piling up outside. The fourth generation was coming. New babies were on the way. Tate and Rachel were getting married. If I didn’t break the cycle now, the avalanche would bury them, too.

When I got home, the house was quiet. Sam was sprawled on the black leather Eames chair and ottoman, feet up, eyes closed. He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep shadows in the dim light.

“Do you think your parents deserve an invitation?” I asked.

He didn’t open his eyes. “I don’t know. They’re his grandparents. But the thought of them sitting there, smiling like everything is fine… it makes me sick.”

Anger flared in my chest—hot and sudden.

“If they can’t come to the table for a single honest conversation,” I said, my voice rising, “if they can’t take one ounce of accountability for years of hell, why do they get the privilege of the front row? Why are we even hesitating?”

Sam opened his eyes. He let out a long, ragged exhale. “It still hurts, Tara. I keep hoping… I hope they realize what they’ve done. I have to try one last time.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake him. Instead, I turned away and watched as he reached for his iPad.

He typed in silence, the soft tap-tap-tap on the screen the only sound in the room. When he finished, he turned the tablet toward me.

Mom and Dad,

It’s mid-February 2025. I am no longer waiting. My boundaries are as follows:

Mark will work with me on generational planning and succession without your interference. Professional advisors, not family dynamics, will dictate this process.

Tate’s salary must be adjusted to reflect his engineering work over the last two years. The disparity is unacceptable.

In 2010, I was financially punished for trying to establish healthy boundaries. That cycle ends now. I will bring in my attorney if we don’t repair these grievances.

Tate and Rachel’s save-the-date cards are ready. However, without action and actual resolution, there will be no formal invitation. Your presence at his wedding is a privilege, not a guarantee.

You have hurt my family. You have hurt me. And I refuse to allow this cycle to continue.

Healthy systems listen and repair. The choice is yours.

Sam

Sam stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the send button. His knuckle turned white. This wasn’t just an email; it was a severance of the hope he had clung to for decades.

He pressed it. Sent.

He gripped the iPad, knuckles straining, staring at the blank space where the message had been. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Chime.

We both jumped.

Sam’s phone lit up on the cushion beside him. He looked at the text, then at me.

For the first time in years, his father was responding.

It wasn’t a resolution. But as Sam reached for the phone, I felt a shift in the air. We were no longer the ones waiting in the hallway, hoping to be let in.

I exhaled, a long, deep release. I didn’t know what was about to be said, but for the first time, I knew we didn’t need their permission to survive it.