Open Letters

Let the Healing begin

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At 60, I’m finally facing the pain I’ve carried for decades. It’s a heavy load, one I was taught to ignore because my emotions didn’t matter. “Just let it go,” they said. “Others matter more.” In my family of four, I was the “fish child”—the odd one out, swimming in a current of expectations and unspoken rules, never quite fitting in. My mother’s death left a void, and my father’s grief turned the holidays, once a time of warmth, into a season of extra chores and shared misery. If he hated the holidays, we had to hate them too. Growing up, I learned to bury my feelings. My father’s selfishness—his insistence that we bear his pain—came with emotional and sometimes physical abuse. I was taught that tolerating this was the price of connection, that love meant enduring. But it didn’t. It left me disconnected, not just from him but from myself. Now, I’m unlearning those lessons. My emotions do matter. I don’t have to accept abuse to feel close to another human soul. This blog is my act of healing—a space to name the pain, to honor the fish child who deserved better, and to reach out to others who’ve lived similar stories. If you’ve ever felt invisible in your family, told to “let it go” while your heart ached, know this: you’re not alone. Your pain is real, and it’s okay to feel it. Healing starts with seeing yourself, with refusing to carry the weight of someone else’s misery. I’m 60, and I’m finally free to feel. To those reading this, I hope my words help you take that first step toward your own freedom. You don’t have to tolerate abuse to be loved. You are enough, just as you are. MeganR Pronounced Me-Goner as me gone from the abuse and living a happy life.

Dear Brother,

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At 25, I was young, naive, and desperate to please. When Dad held my share of Mom’s inheritance hostage, threatening to cut me off unless I bought your house, I folded. I didn’t know he had no legal right to do that. I didn’t have a lawyer to call his bluff. I trusted you—my own brother—and that trust turned into a nightmare.

Your house was a wreck. Leaky bathrooms meant ripping out baseboards and gutting the whole space. The kitchen cabinets? A joke—doors two inches off on one side, forcing a complete overhaul. Every room needed new carpet or flooring. I sank at least $20,000 in 1990s dollars—my own hard-earned cash, not the inheritance I was fighting for—just to make it livable. And you? You lived there rent-free for six months, double the three months we agreed on. If our stepmom hadn’t stepped in, you’d probably have stayed a year, mooching off me while your new place was built.

Then, the kicker: six months after I moved in, I found out you hadn’t paid property taxes for five years. That’s $10,000 in back taxes and penalties dumped on me. Did Dad cover it? Did he take it out of my second inheritance installment? Did you ever pay a dime? I’ll probably never know, but the lack of transparency burns. And yet, you had the nerve to say I don’t “contribute enough.” Contribute to what? Your free ride?

I was a born loser in that deal, manipulated by family and stuck with a house that cost me more than money—it cost me trust. But here’s the thing: I rebuilt that house, just like I’ve rebuilt myself from every setback. You sold me a lemon, but I made it mine. I’m still standing, writing my story, and calling out the betrayals that shaped me. This letter isn’t about forgiveness—it’s about owning my truth.

Signed,
The Sibling Who Survived Your Mess

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