Unspoken History

The message blinked on the screen, a name I hadn't seen in years—one I never thought I would see again. Another restless evening had brought me back to the glow of my computer. Sleep was elusive, chased away by the familiar hum of anxiety. Family drama had a way of keeping me awake, sending me down endless rabbit holes of what-ifs and why-nots.

Therapy had become my sanctuary over the past three years. I had untangled the snarled threads of narcissistic abuse, piecing together the roles my family played. My mother, the narcissist. My father, emotionally immature, simmering with resentment toward his own family. My sister, the golden child. And me? I was the scapegoat, burdened with the weight of their dysfunction.

In time, I learned that peace was far more valuable than the need to be right. I chose silence. I chose no contact. Explaining their wrongs to people unwilling to listen was a battle I no longer wished to fight. But even in the stillness, questions lingered.

Why were my parents so determined to keep my sister and me isolated? Friends from school were rarely invited over. Birthdays and holidays remained insular—just the four of us. Extended family existed—grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. My great-grandmother was alive when we were born, yet we never met her. Did she even know we existed? My mother, an immigrant, often lamented her lack of family in the States, painting herself as the lonely victim. But she never acknowledged the choices she and my father made that led to that isolation. Any questions were met with defensiveness, anger, and a well-worn narrative of victimhood.

The questions gnawed at me most on nights like this. Why the secrecy? What truths lay buried beneath the carefully constructed facade?

Even the simplest stories were withheld. My sister and I didn’t even know how our parents met. My mother had seemingly grown up with every advantage—wealthy doctor parents, a comfortable life in a tropical paradise, and the respect of a prominent community. So why had she left it all to marry my father, a man neither financially stable nor ambitious? He rarely contributed to our family’s well-being, leaving her to bear the load. They never seemed like a couple in love. They fought like animals in a cage, claws bared and tempers flaring.

No one could convince me that theirs was a happy marriage. And now, staring at that unexpected name on the screen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers I’d been searching for might finally be within reach.

I had pieced together fragments of my family’s puzzle on my own. An Ancestry.com DNA test confirmed that my mom and dad were the biological parents of both my sister and me. Strangely, the confirmation was disappointing. If I had been adopted while my sister wasn’t, their favoritism and mistreatment might have made a twisted kind of sense. But knowing we shared the same blood only deepened the sting of the abuse.

Through the DNA test and public records like obituaries, birth and death announcements, and census data, I traced the names and lives of my paternal grandparents and great-grandparents. That’s how I discovered that my great-grandmother was still alive when my sister and I were born. But I couldn’t shake the thought of how much more I might uncover with the help of a platform like Facebook.

I had connected with cousins on both sides of my family. One of my maternal cousins confided in me about her own struggles with a toxic mother—the wife of my mom’s brother. Her story echoed too many parts of my own. And then there was my paternal uncle. Could he, or perhaps any of my cousins, offer insights into the family secrets that my parents had worked so hard to keep buried?

The subject of my paternal uncle was apparent but undiscussed. Every time he was mentioned, my dad would react angrily and warn us never to have contact with him. We were never given a reason why. My mom seemed to know more, but she remained tight-lipped, and I never felt comfortable pushing for answers. For years, I accepted their warnings without question, even going so far as to keep my uncle blocked on social media for the sake of peace.

But with the growing distance from my family, my curiosity gnawed at me. A few months ago, I unblocked him, though I hadn't decided what, if anything, I would say. It had been more than 20 years since we’d last spoken. I told myself that if he wanted to reach out, he could.

Tonight, as I sat at my computer, waiting for the restless hum of my thoughts to fade into drowsiness, a notification popped up. My heart stopped. It was a message from my uncle.

I sat in my chair, staring at my computer screen, dumbfounded. What could he possibly have to say to me? Was this just a polite hello? Or was he willing to shed light on the family history my parents had refused to share? My curiosity gnawed at me, refusing to be ignored. With a deep breath, I clicked on his message.

Hi there. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to you and your sister. How is your dad doing? I’ve only ever tried to do what was best for him, but I hope that you and your sister have been okay over the years. Your dad never let me see you girls, but since you popped up on my Facebook “Friends You May Know,” I thought I’d try to reach out.

His words left me with more questions than answers. What did he mean by “tried to do what was best” for my dad? And why the concern about whether my sister and I had been okay? What could have possibly made him worry? My uncle had all but confirmed what I’d long suspected — that we had been deliberately kept from our extended family. But why?

My eyes grew heavy as my mind spun with possible responses. I knew I would reply to my uncle, but I wanted to be thoughtful about what I said. Over the years, I’d adopted a simple rule — when faced with an important decision, I’d sleep on it. Clarity always seemed to find me in the morning. Leaving the message unread, I shut down my computer and went upstairs to bed.

Thoughts of my uncle’s words lingered as I drifted off to sleep. But by the time I woke up, they had been temporarily replaced by the mental checklist of everything I needed to do that day. That was until my phone pinged with the familiar chime of a Messenger notification. My stomach clenched. It was my uncle.

I didn’t mean to bother you. If you don’t want to speak to me, I’ll understand. Have a great rest of your day.

The message was polite, even considerate, but it stirred a sense of urgency within me. I carried my phone downstairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeting me. I was grateful for the automatic timer that ensured it would be ready. With a steaming mug in hand, I settled back at my desk. The morning air and the clarity that came with it made my next step feel obvious.

The words came more easily now. I typed deliberately, each sentence a careful balance of curiosity and caution.

Hi Uncle Mike. It’s great to hear from you, and I hope you’ve been doing well. I’m not quite sure what you meant when you said you tried to do what’s best for my dad, and I’d rather not get caught in the middle of whatever may have happened between you two. But I’m still glad you reached out, and I’d love to catch up on here.

My finger hovered over the send button for a moment. There were so many other things I wanted to ask. Did he know the truth about my family history? Could he shed light on how my parents met or why they had isolated us so completely? But those questions could wait. I didn’t want to overwhelm him — or myself.

I hit send, the message vanishing into the ether. Then, needing to shake off the lingering tension, I clipped on my dog’s leash and stepped outside for a walk. The crisp air filled my lungs as I tried to clear my mind. There would be time for answers later. For now, I just needed to breathe.

As I went about my errands for the day, the unexpected message from my uncle slipped from my mind. First, I swung by Target for a few household essentials, then made a quick stop to pick up my Bath and Body Works order. Back home, I took my dog for another walk, enjoying the crisp air. But as dinner time rolled around and I began cooking, the familiar ping of Facebook Messenger broke through the quiet hum of the evening.

I finished preparing my meal, deciding to check my messages once I sat down. After all, I needed to go through some emails anyway. Settling back at my desk, I skimmed through my notifications. My best friend had sent a funny meme, and my publisher followed up on my upcoming deadline. Then, there it was — another message from my uncle.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I clicked on it.

I’m so glad that you’re willing to hear from me. What is your understanding of why your dad and I don’t talk?

Bingo. This could be the window of opportunity I’d been hoping for. My uncle might have answers — insights into the tangled family history my parents had always kept hidden. I wondered not only what he might reveal but also why he felt the need to ask me directly.

With my burger and fries in front of me, I mulled over how best to respond. I wanted to tread carefully, leaving space for an open dialogue without sounding too accusatory. After a few thoughtful minutes, I began typing.

I actually hoped you could shed some light on a few things I’ve had questions about. Honestly, I have no real understanding of why you and my dad don’t talk. He seemed furious when you were appointed the executor of Grandpa’s estate instead of him. He implied you weren’t trustworthy enough for that responsibility, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it. He once brought up an incident where you supposedly cheated on an ex-girlfriend as an example of your dishonesty. Beyond that, I don’t know why even the mention of your name makes him so angry.

I’m also curious why we had no relationship with our cousins or why we never spoke to my aunts and uncles on my mom’s side. It’s like we were cut off from both sides of the family. What were you told? Could you shed any light on why you and my dad stopped speaking?

Satisfied with the tone, I hit send and took a deep breath. The ball was in his court now.

Uncle Mike read the message immediately. The suspense gnawed at me as I stared at the screen. The green dot next to his name signaled that he was still online, but the usual typing bubbles were nowhere in sight. I tried to distract myself, but the anticipation was unbearable. Just as I considered giving up and closing the app, the bubbles appeared.

Then they disappeared.

A moment later, they popped up again, only to vanish once more. My stomach twisted. What was he writing? A novel?

I shifted in my chair, tapping my fingers on the desk. The back-and-forth of the typing bubbles dragged on, making the wait feel endless. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his response appeared — several paragraphs long.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever revelations he had decided to share. Grabbing my beer, I took a steady swig, then scrolled to the top of his message.

Uncle Mike’s words weighed heavily on the screen.

“I am sad and disappointed that you and your sister didn’t have family around you while you were growing up. There’s a valid reason why your dad wasn’t selected to be the executor of Dad’s estate. There were some unusual and murky circumstances regarding your parents’ relationship. I debated whether to tell you the truth, but you’re an adult now, and you deserve to hear it.

You and your sister may not know that your mom was a mail-order bride. Your dad had been married to another woman before her, but she quickly realized how ill-tempered he was and requested a divorce. She moved back to Taiwan. Your dad married your mom about a year and a half later, and then your sister was born, followed by you. He had made big promises about how wonderful life would be in the States, but your mom soon realized those promises would never come true. He struggled to keep a job and wasn’t interested in being a parent.

Your dad wanted to be the executor of the estate for personal reasons. It had nothing to do with my dishonesty. While it’s true that I cheated on my ex-girlfriend in college — something I regret — it’s a far cry from being dishonest in my responsibilities. I genuinely loved our dad and wanted to divide his estate as fairly as possible. Dad’s wish was for his grandchildren to receive part of the inheritance. I sent checks to you and your sister, but your dad returned them out of spite. He was furious that he wasn’t in control. He was more focused on the money and the power that came with it than on grieving our father and respecting his wishes.

Your mom was angry too. She resented him for not delivering the life he promised and for making her shoulder the burden as the breadwinner. That bitterness seeped into everything.

From what I understand, your sister has always been quiet and compliant. She doesn’t challenge your parents, and in return, they favored her. She never questioned them or made waves. But you? You figured things out early on. You had questions. You had spirit. And your parents didn’t like that.

I saw how differently you were treated. I called your parents out on it more than once, and that’s why they never wanted me around. They didn’t want any of the family around. They were afraid you might talk — afraid someone would start putting the pieces together. They couldn’t risk the truth about their relationship or their motives coming to light.”

The weight of his words settled over me. I stared at the screen, my burger and fries forgotten. There it was. The truth — or at least, one version of it.

mulled over the words on the screen. It all made perfect sense. My parents absolutely hated when I asked questions. My mom would angrily sigh, and my dad would make sarcastic jokes anytime I tried to dig deeper into their relationship or our family history.

And I had so many questions. If they resented each other that much, why did they stay together? Especially since my dad hadn’t changed, and he knew exactly how little my mom thought of him. It was painfully obvious that he was exhausted by her constant belittling and nagging. But even worse, they both could have — and should have — realized how their toxic relationship was affecting my sister and me. They never cared enough to do anything about it.

Eventually, I decided to respond to Uncle Mike.

“There’s a lot to take in. I’m sure I’ll have plenty more questions about my parents and our family history. But for now, I’m just grateful to have a family member in my corner. I’m not on speaking terms with my parents because of how they’ve treated me, but I’m hanging in there, focusing on my life and my mental health. Where are you living these days? Would you be up for a visit in the coming weeks?”

I set my phone down and returned to my now-cold burger and fries. The meal had lost its appeal, but I nibbled on the fries absentmindedly while waiting for a response.

A notification finally popped up.

“I’m living in Boston now. If you’re up for it, I’d love to take you to a Red Sox game.”

I smiled. I had loved baseball as a kid. But like so many of my interests, it was never encouraged. My mom always acted like I should be an extension of her, only pursuing hobbies she approved of. Anything that truly interested me was dismissed or mocked. My dad, meanwhile, was too checked out to care. He never wanted to be bothered with playing catch or taking me to a game.

But now? Maybe I’d finally get to enjoy something on my own terms. I replied to Uncle Mike, "I'd love to attend a game. Why don't we stay in touch and figure out some dates when I can come out to meet you? I won't mention anything to my dad for now. I know it won't go over well if he finds out I'm talking to you, and I hope you understand."

Uncle Mike's response came quickly. "No problem, kiddo. I'm heading to bed. I'll talk to you soon. Can’t wait to plan your visit out here soon."

I said goodnight, and as I locked my computer for the night, a strange wave of peace washed over me. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I had a new beginning — a fresh connection with family. And maybe, just maybe, I could finally uncover the truth I’d always sensed but had never been allowed to see.