Story Time: Life's a bitch, ain't it?
This seems like as good a time as any to introduce you to my mother.
“Bob, you need to get over here as soon as you can! Your mom just barged in and is in your bedroom, going through all of your things!”
It was my roommate, Meredith. The blood drained from my face as I hung up the phone. I bolted out of bed and threw on my shoes. I was house-sitting across town for some friends, and I moved so fast that, if I hadn’t been sleeping in shorts, I likely would have driven in my underwear.
This whole incident began a few months earlier when my mom was crashing on her friend Maggie’s couch for the summer. She had run out of cons and options—no money, no place to stay, and only one person left willing to offer a hand. Her friend Maggie, exhausted from years of fabricated tales and financial assistance, couldn’t bear the thought of letting her live out of her car, but also couldn’t give her another penny after years of borrowing money and never paying it back. So, Maggie and her husband agreed to let her stay with them, but with strict conditions: she had to find a job and get back on her feet within three months. If she managed that, they’d reassess the living situation. If not, she’d have to go.
For those three months, my mom barely moved from the couch, draped in a blanket as she cried away her days, convinced the world was conspiring against her. She never looked for a job. She never left the house. At the end of those three months, Maggie had no choice but to ask her to leave. Ever resourceful, my mom found her way to Reno, back into the arms of her ex-husband—whom, we later discovered, she had never actually divorced.
Once in Reno, she often called, asking me to visit because she was lonely, saying she couldn’t afford the gas to come back to San Jose. I’d explain that I couldn’t take the time off and couldn’t afford the trip either (not to mention, I doubted my '76 Toyota Corolla could make the trek). Around my birthday, she excitedly told me she had sent a pair of cowboy boots I’d wanted (the two-stepping scene was just taking off in the Bay Area). With each call, she’d ask if the boots had arrived, and I’d say no. She would quickly shift the conversation back to how much she wanted me to visit.
After a couple of weeks, she started expressing concern about the missing boots, saying she’d track the package with UPS—but never did. Whenever I brought it up, she’d express frustration with UPS and suggest I drive to Reno, where she’d buy me a new pair. Like Groundhog Day, I’d remind her I couldn’t afford the trip either. Eventually, possibly bored with her charade, she shrugged off the boots entirely, claiming they must have been lost.
Around that time, Maggie called to ask if I wanted my mom’s TV, which had been sitting unplugged in her living room since my mom left. I laughed and told her it turned out the TV was actually mine and that I’d be happy to pick it up. My uncle had originally bought it for my grandfather, and after he passed away, my uncle gave it to me. But when it arrived at our house, my mom had placed it in the living room instead of my bedroom, blurring the lines of ownership.
About a week after I picked up the TV, my mom called me at work. She was angry and blunt, demanding, “Where is my TV?”
Tired of her games, I replied, “I think you mean my TV, and you can find it with my cowboy boots!” She hung up on me.
It was only a few days later when I received Meredith’s phone call. As I furiously drove home, I couldn’t help but realize that for months my mom claimed she couldn’t afford to visit me, yet the moment she thought I had something she believed was hers, that was all the motivation she needed to get in her car. Her priorities were laid bare—twisted and self-serving.
When I pulled into the driveway, both of my roommates were standing in the doorway, looking stunned. Meredith felt guilty for letting my mom in, but how could she have known the chaos she was unleashing?
My bedroom looked like a crime scene. I was never one for keeping a tidy room, but now the TV stand at the foot of my bed was empty, with wires and cables scattered like the aftermath of a robbery.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Meredith said, her voice trembling. “She was going through all your things, claiming everything she thought was hers. I kept asking her to wait because you were on your way, but that just made her move faster.”
I reassured her it wasn’t her fault, though I could feel rage vibrating through me.
“Did she say where she was going?” I asked.
“No, she only said you’d know where to find her.”
I got back in my car, mentally running through the short list of friends she still had in San Jose. Her friend, Rose, seemed like the only option, and she lived just down the street.
As I turned the corner toward Rose’s house, I spotted my mom’s car—a 1976 Camaro she insisted on buying with the small inheritance my grandfather left when he passed. Money that should have gone toward his final arrangements. Did you know mortuaries have debt collectors and will hold remains in a warehouse until the debt is settled? That car was a constant reminder of how she continued to wrong my grandfather, even after his death.
When I approached the car, I saw my TV sitting helplessly in the passenger seat, its power cord wound around it like a hostage, hog-tied and held for ransom. I instinctively reached for the door to set it free, but it was locked.
Without a second thought, I stormed into Rose’s house, fury surging through me. There she was, perched on the couch, waiting for me. She wore shorts far too short, and a cut-off t-shirt she’d taken scissors to, with a plunging V-neck exposing far too much cleavage, and—strangest of all—a cropped midsection that exposed a belly no one asked to see. The whole look screamed Hillbilly Elegy.
If there was ever a moment I understood how people make catastrophic, life-altering mistakes, this was it. I’m not saying I condone what O.J. did, but in that terrifying moment, I understood how it could happen. The rage inside me was so intense—it was like when something becomes so hot it turns white from the heat.
My ears burned, and the sounds around me distorted, like feedback from an amplifier. My voice was lodged in my throat, heating up like jet engines ready for launch. I knew that once I started speaking, there’d be no stopping.
Then, unexpectedly, she did the most sobering thing. She reached for her car keys on the coffee table in front of her, buried them in her practically exposed crotch, and said, “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
In an instant, the trance of rage I was in was broken, and I became calm. I saw her clearly—like a petulant child, her immaturity fully on display—and I was instantly disarmed. The white-hot storm of emotion inside me crashed into sudden silence. Even now, 30 years later, I vividly recall that moment as one where I left my body, and my higher self took control.
In the calmest yet most forceful voice I could muster, I said, “You are never to speak to me again. From this day forward, I do not exist to you. You don’t know my name. You don’t know my number. You do not know how to contact me. We are done.”
Then, with a self-assured turn on my heel, I walked out the front door.
It would take me another twenty years to truly understand and define boundaries. But at that moment, my mother had crossed mine, and instinctively, I knew it and was ready to defend and protect them at all costs.
I learned a difficult yet valuable lesson that day: anger is powerful, but it only serves you up to a point. Beyond that, the simplicity of disengagement is far more powerful and ultimately sets you free. Once you stop caring—what they think, where they are, what they’re doing—they lose all power over you. Hate still requires energy, but ambivalence—that’s where real freedom lies.
I wish I could say that feeling lasted, but by the time I got back to my car, I was shaking like the Northridge quake. I barely held it together as I drove home. It was years before cell phones, and I was alone with my thoughts, replaying what had just happened. The moment I got home, I called my Aunt Heidi and burst into tears.
I was inconsolable, frantic. “Do I call the police? Do I press charges?” I knew I had every right. She had entered my home without permission. My ambivalence was short-lived. Suddenly, I was re-engaged, caring again—about her, what she thought, about all the times she put herself first, and all the terrible ways she had treated me. Years of anger and pain erupted like Mt. St. Helens inside my chest. I was angry. I was shattered. I wanted her to pay for every resentment I had for her. Her power over me had returned, and she was winning.
But my aunt, calm and measured, gave me the most powerful advice of my life.
“No,” she said. “If this is about the TV, we’ll buy you a new one. Your mother thrives on drama. Taking her to court will only turn her into the victim and keep her in your life—that’s how she survives. Drama for her, whether positive or negative, is like oxygen to a fire. A fire needs fuel to burn, and the only way to extinguish it is to walk away and be done with her. Leave her with nothing to react to.”
As hard as that was for my ego to hear, her wisdom was laser-sharp. My ego wanted revenge and retribution, but where would that have ultimately gotten me? I would have remained tormented while my mom thrived, playing the victim, starring as the martyr in the story of how her son was so cruel. My aunt was teaching me the art of letting go long before I fully grasped its power. That simple piece of advice changed my life, and I’ve passed it on to countless others who’ve found themselves in the crosshairs of narcissism.
The very next day, I started a job that completely altered the trajectory of my life. With no college degree and minimal skills beyond working a cash register, I seemed destined for a life in retail. That was until the fateful day Joe Noonan brought me into Navigation Technologies, a budding Silicon Valley company digitizing maps so your car could give you directions. While I couldn’t quite grasp what we were doing (the cutting-edge technology at the time was pagers, so, sure, Jan, our cars will be able to talk to us soon), the job felt like winning the lottery. I started out in shipping and receiving, and by the end of my second year, I was the Administrative Services Coordinator. The title might sound modest, but on my résumé, it gave me the skill set and confidence to move to Los Angeles and pursue a career in film. That job continues to transform my life in ways I never could have imagined.
The Sliding Doors moment was never lost on me—that if I had followed my ego instead of my aunt’s advice, I could have sabotaged my new job opportunity and remained stuck. If I had pressed charges, the drama would have consumed me, dragging me back into the same toxic cycle I had grown up in. I’d have been taking time off for court, enduring endless, frustrating phone calls with my mom. But instead, there was silence where she was concerned, and new opportunities kept presenting themselves. I finally had the focus to pursue them. The chaos disappeared, like a tornado moving on to another town.
I never spoke to my mother again after that day. Over the years I would hear occasional stories through third-party contacts, but that moment in Rose’s house—her holding the car keys in her lap and telling me, “Life’s a bitch”—was our final interaction. On August 21, 1994, exactly 30 years ago, I told her I no longer existed to her, and I meant it. On January 4, 2019, I got the call that she had passed away, alone at home while watching TV, and that I needed to claim her body.
After 25 years, she left me with one final, dramatic, on-brand, jaw-dropping decision—a story I’ll save for another day. But I’ve always found it interesting that, while she was out of my life longer than she was in it, her legacy, for better or worse, remains intertwined with mine and continues to be unpacked. I often wonder what led her to make the choices she did—how much was driven by mental illness versus survival instinct—in an effort to replace my resentments with compassion. I’ve come to realize that this requires humanizing her, after a lifetime spent demonizing her. It’s going to take more time, but I’m getting there.
You are such a gifted writer. Your mother missed knowing what an amazing person you are. Her loss. Thank you for sharing such a difficult story.
Wow, I had no idea of what you went through with your mom. This story is so sad and heartbreaking. I’m so sorry what you had to go through with her but so grateful that your beautiful aunt was there to give you the best advice ever and to help change your life’s trajectory. You are an amazing young man and a wonderful writer. I so look forward to reading more of your wonderful stories.