My mother is fifty-three, and a few months ago she mentioned—almost casually—that she had started dating someone named Ethan. The moment I heard his name, my stomach dropped.
Not because it was unusual. But because I knew exactly who he was.
Ethan wasn’t some stranger she’d met recently. He lived in our neighborhood when I was growing up. Back then, he was the admired older kid—friendly, helpful, always fixing things or lending a hand. When I was seven, he seemed perfect. I followed him around constantly and once told my mom, with total seriousness, that I was going to marry him someday.
She laughed back then. I remember it vividly.
So when she said, “I’ve been seeing someone… you remember Ethan, right?” I laughed too, assuming she was joking. Surely she wouldn’t cross that line. Surely she remembered what he symbolized to me as a child.
But she wasn’t joking.
She smiled and said, “It’s funny, isn’t it? You had such a big crush on him.”
Funny. That was how she framed it.
From that moment on, everything felt uncomfortable. She kept inviting me over, pushing for “family time.” Even when we were alone, she couldn’t stop talking about him—how emotionally aware he was, how much younger and energetic he felt, how different he was from men her age.
Each comment felt like reopening a wound I didn’t realize was still there.
What hurt most wasn’t jealousy. It was knowing that something innocent and personal from my childhood had been turned into entertainment—something I was expected to laugh along with.
Eventually, I agreed to have dinner with them, telling myself I was being dramatic. I convinced myself I could handle it.
I couldn’t.
As soon as Ethan saw me, he laughed and said, “Your mom told me you used to have a crush on me. That’s kind of adorable, right?” Then he winked.
My mom laughed. “She was obsessed with you when she was little!”
I wanted the ground to swallow me. They weren’t just joking—they were bonding over me, over something private I never agreed to share.
Watching him casually touch her afterward made my stomach turn.
After dinner, I pulled my mom aside and finally spoke up. I told her it wasn’t funny and that it made me deeply uncomfortable. She rolled her eyes, called me too sensitive, and accused me of being jealous.
That’s when I understood she wasn’t listening—because she didn’t want to.
So I stepped back. I created distance. I let her enjoy her relationship without me being part of it.
A few weeks ago, she called me in tears. Ethan had broken things off. She found out he’d been messaging women his own age the entire time.
I do feel sympathy for her. Heartbreak hurts at any stage of life.
But I also feel relief. And, if I’m honest, a quiet sense that this outcome wasn’t surprising.
Is it wrong to believe she crossed a boundary—and eventually had to face the consequences of doing so?