Mommy, I Don’t Need You:
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 13
About Grown-Up Kids and Immature Parents
Chapter 13
The next “husband” my mom brought home was Alex. He just appeared one day in our room, crawled into bed with my mom, and stayed.
Nobody was thrilled. Grandpa, as usual, kept his mouth shut. Grandma, being an older woman, wasn’t exactly dying to share a room with some random young guy. And me? I didn’t love having to pee in my little plastic potty while this dude was around. “Grandma, I don’t want to go if THIS GUY is here.”
Drama exploded. My mom screamed: “What do you mean, ‘THIS GUY’?! Why is she acting like a bitch?!”
Just for context—I was about five.
I read something recently that hit me hard: emotionally immature, manipulative parents tend to treat their small kids like grown-ups—and their grown-up kids like toddlers. Yep. That’s us. Not a single kind or gentle word in childhood, but constant demands like I was 35. And now, in my thirties, being called “baby” and talked to like I’m five—it makes me wanna puke. Like nothing I’ve built or become means shit.
Anyway, Alex ended up sticking around for, I don’t know, five years maybe? They eventually moved out of our room, thankfully. He had his own tiny place a few blocks away. He lived in a small room with his mom and a massive dog chained to the leg of an old wardrobe. The place reeked of dog. It was way worse than what we had. So much so that when I visited, I wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom.
Alex would pick me up from kindergarten. He came out to the dacha. Carried me on his shoulders. Held me when I fell asleep at someone’s house. He gave me my first hamster. I kind of loved him. At one point, I even started calling him dad.
Once, when he picked me up from daycare, he told me there was a surprise waiting at home. I got back, opened the fridge—and saw a Kinder Egg. THE egg. Back then, just seeing that shiny foil made my little heart shake with excitement. I started opening it… but inside was something white instead of chocolate.
“Oh, cool, a new kind,” I thought. Peeled it open further—and it was just a regular-ass chicken egg.
The adults thought it’d be hilarious to prank me.
I had a full-blown meltdown. They gave me a real Kinder Egg eventually, but I stayed pissed at Alex for a while.
His relationship with my mom was… volatile. There were fights. There were tears—his. And yeah, it’s weird seeing a grown man cry. Alex was tall, dark hair, thick brows, had a little earring in one ear. Want to know what he looks like now? You really don’t.
There was one story we used to joke about for years: one night, Alex came home drunk. Something triggered my mom, and she decided he was out of line. She started shoving him, he lost his balance and fell. There was this old vanity in the room, and she started kicking him and shoving him under it. I just sat there and watched.
It made an impression. For years we’d joke about “kicking someone under the vanity.” Like, that was the punchline. A full-on act of abuse.
By the way, she always fought like that—completely unhinged. Even with me. “Playfully.”
Eventually, Alex started showing up less and less. Then he disappeared completely. Other men came and went, sometimes even while Alex was technically still around. And I kept wondering: is this one going to be my dad?
Spoiler: none of them wanted the job. Or wanted to marry my mom, even though she swore they all begged to.
Alex had a daughter eventually. Her mom died, so he raised the girl alone—or, really, with his own mom.
He still lives in that same grimy old shared apartment, the one where I wasn’t allowed to use the toilet.
Anyway, Alex ended up sticking around for, I don’t know, five years maybe? They eventually moved out of our room, thankfully. He had his own tiny place a few blocks away. He lived in a small room with his mom and a massive dog chained to the leg of an old wardrobe. The place reeked of dog. It was way worse than what we had. So much so that when I visited, I wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom.
Alex would pick me up from kindergarten. He came out to the dacha. Carried me on his shoulders. Held me when I fell asleep at someone’s house. He gave me my first hamster. I kind of loved him. At one point, I even started calling him dad.
Once, when he picked me up from daycare, he told me there was a surprise waiting at home. I got back, opened the fridge—and saw a Kinder Egg. THE egg. Back then, just seeing that shiny foil made my little heart shake with excitement. I started opening it… but inside was something white instead of chocolate.
“Oh, cool, a new kind,” I thought. Peeled it open further—and it was just a regular-ass chicken egg.
The adults thought it’d be hilarious to prank me.
I had a full-blown meltdown. They gave me a real Kinder Egg eventually, but I stayed pissed at Alex for a while.
His relationship with my mom was… volatile. There were fights. There were tears—his. And yeah, it’s weird seeing a grown man cry. Alex was tall, dark hair, thick brows, had a little earring in one ear. Want to know what he looks like now? You really don’t.
There was one story we used to joke about for years: one night, Alex came home drunk. Something triggered my mom, and she decided he was out of line. She started shoving him, he lost his balance and fell. There was this old vanity in the room, and she started kicking him and shoving him under it. I just sat there and watched.
It made an impression. For years we’d joke about “kicking someone under the vanity.” Like, that was the punchline. A full-on act of abuse.
By the way, she always fought like that—completely unhinged. Even with me. “Playfully.”
Eventually, Alex started showing up less and less. Then he disappeared completely. Other men came and went, sometimes even while Alex was technically still around. And I kept wondering: is this one going to be my dad?
Spoiler: none of them wanted the job. Or wanted to marry my mom, even though she swore they all begged to.
Alex had a daughter eventually. Her mom died, so he raised the girl alone—or, really, with his own mom.
He still lives in that same grimy old shared apartment, the one where I wasn’t allowed to use the toilet.
It’s been over thirty years.
