Unchanged

Even now, after all we have been through, we have tried to point out that the dysfunction continues.

"You haven't changed a thing in how you run this company," Sam slammed his fist on the conference table. "We have begged and pleaded for succession planners to be brought in, yet you can't hear a word I'm saying." His brother, Mark, looked at him blankly, his ears turning red.

It was the same blank look Sam used to give me when I would talk to him about his hurtful behaviors. Sam understood now. It had taken him three long years of therapy, which he still attends every Tuesday at 11:00 a.m.

Sam now knew that he and his brothers grew up with a covert narcissistic mother whose personality disorder had shaped not only their family but their family business as well. At a turtle's pace, Sam was slowly pointing out the broken system, just as I had once pointed out his brokenness. That's what happens in a marriage; what was broken in you as a child is discovered. You can choose to fix what is wrong, or you can pretend there is no problem and keep sweeping it under the rug. Sam and I had worked hard to fix what was broken in him, in me, and in our marriage. Now, Sam was trying to fix the same problem in their family business. It was no easy feat, as his 88-year-old mother was still alive and still carrying the torch.

Sam was slowly pointing out the dysfunction to his brother, who is the company's president on paper. However, everyone knows their mother is still the one calling the shots. The latest egotistical event at the business made Sam sick. He threw the flyer on the kitchen counter as he walked upstairs to change. From the third step, he yelled down to me as I stood at our kitchen island, "It's all about ME!" His voice was filled with annoyance and frustration.

I looked down at the yellow flyer. The headline read: "A Historic Celebration at DeYoung Processing: 70 Years of Excellence." It continued, "Even more special, we join together in wishing Jerry DeYoung a very Happy 89th Birthday." I felt a little tinge of vomit in my throat. I kept reading: "As a thank you for the dedication and hard work of our amazing team, each full-time employee will receive an hourly raise: $.70 for 70 years and $.89 for the big birthday, for a total of $1.59 in recognition of these remarkable occasions. This will be reflected on the paycheck dated September 4, 2025." A slow feeling of disgust rose in me as I read the last line: "Here's to 70 years of strength, quality, and teamwork, and to many more years ahead." I shook my head and looked up at Sam as he walked back into the kitchen.

"Sickening, isn't it?" he said, shaking his head. "Their self-serving behavior never ends."

With a sarcastic tone, I replied, "The best line on there is 'teamwork.' What a joke! There is no teamwork going on in there; it's a dictatorship. Your brother acts just like your mother."

Sam, now even more disgusted, said, "I know. It's infuriating and embarrassing. Right on the company page, it says the business started on April 1, 1955, yet once again, we are supposed to worship Jerry. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that pathetic story he tells about how he started working there, I wouldn't have to work anymore. The guys there now couldn't give a rat's ass. Why the hell couldn't they give everyone a $2.00 raise, even though that still doesn't get them to the pay grade they should be making?"

I listened, as I always had over the 35 years of our marriage. Each stunt of their self-servitude got better and better. The last one was Sam's brother, Mark, handing out $100 bills on a 100-degree day when Sam was conveniently out of the building. As a minority shareholder, Sam knew nothing of what the President was going to do next. He understood it all now: passing out money behind his back, thinking they could buy their employees' loyalty; having one-on-one meetings with employees, using the same triangulation his mother always pulled. The dynamic was disgusting. Sadly, most of the employees don't even know they are being baited in their narcissistic game.

I asked slowly and calmly, "What did Tate and Arden say about it?"

"Tate stuck his finger in his mouth like he was going to puke, and Arden was pissed that his father barely said 'hi' and didn't even act like he wanted to see him," Sam went on. "The only reason Jerry Jr. was there was to collect his money, of course. He came up to me and said, 'I'm a little short on cash, got any money for me?' I looked at him and said, 'Nope, not until this family starts making things right.' You should have seen how mad he was. He said, 'So I'm being punished?' and I replied, 'Yeah, I guess so.' He called me a 'cocksucker' and walked out. Then he went and sat by his Mommy as my dad spoke.

There was even a spot next to Lilly, but he couldn't sit by her? The poor girl," Sam shook his head. "I had to grab her by the hand and drag her to their little dog and pony show. You know how Mom treats her in the office. Lilly told me later, 'They just make me feel so unwanted and unwelcome.' I told her it's not her, it's them. It's what they do. But after the relentless bullying she's endured, it's no wonder she feels that way.

I looked over at Sam as he got his bottle of scotch out of the liquor cabinet. He opened the ice maker, and the sound of the ice cubes hitting the crystal glass was as cold as I felt about that family.

"You know," I said, "the only way out of this mess is with attorneys and then succession planners. We are going to be screwed if we don't do this before your parents are dead."

Sam, pouring scotch into his glass, replied, "I know. I enjoyed playing their little game today. Just a little longer, as they are beginning to crack, and the employees are talking. Oh, and they did give out a nice token: a Carhartt backpack with the company's logo on it."

"Of course," I said. "Just a little string to keep everyone attached. You know, that's kind of the name of my book: 'Some Strings Are Meant to be Broken: Undoing Family Narcissism.’"

As if he understood the weight of the conversation, our dog, Truman, lay down with a loud plunk and a heavy sigh. I reached down and scratched his ears, my resolve hardening.

"Now I need to get myself an agent. My book reads as a perfect case study for the therapist Lindsay C. Gibson and her work on Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents. I'm going to send that book to Lauren, our nephew's wife, along with a Tonka truck for their new baby. She deserves to know what she's dealing with in her husband. She has to understand how to protect that poor, innocent baby, born into this circus."