What No One Sees and What I Can No Longer Push Away

If no one sees what you carry your entire life, it is because it was never only about what happens, but about who it affects.
Sometimes everything just seems to carry on as normal: the performance outside, the voices, the laughter and the dogs. But those who stay quiet and keep watching, see something else. Something that has been simmering for years, but was never really allowed to exist. Until now.
My mother is everyone’s favorite neighbor. The friendly woman who always waves, who greets everyone with exaggerated warmth and a loud, laughing enthusiasm that has always made me deeply uncomfortable. She rushes through the street whenever she brings or picks up a dog she’s babysitting. Her voice echoes loudly through the neighborhood, her theatrical voice, her public role, always searching for the center of attention. Not necessarily out of spontaneity, but because it belongs to her. Because it gives her a place. Because as long as you laugh, you are the good one. And as long as you laugh the loudest, no one looks at the quietest person.
That quiet person is me. And Mart. The ones who have to make themselves invisible every single day, in this house, in this garden, under this roof.
Most of the time, we are the ones who accept the groceries. Quietly, without turning it into something grand, simply because there is no reason to make a performance out of it. But the moment she does it, a simple action transforms into a theatrical scene. Her voice carries through the street, she laughs far too loudly, as if there has to be visible proof that she is there. She even gives speeches. She tells the delivery driver about scents and colors and rain, about how difficult it was having to walk three dogs at once, and wishes them success and strength as if they are leaving for a dangerous expedition. It is all so large, so present, so saturated with the need to be seen, that the contrast with how we do things becomes painfully visible.
The same ritual repeats itself whenever people bring their dogs over. The door swings open and immediately her voice rises above everything else, laughter that sounds too loud to be sincere, an exaggerated friendliness that almost feels staged and mainly reveals how desperately she wants to play a role in the eyes of others. But the moment that same door closes again, the moment the audience disappears, the mask falls off mercilessly. Then there is no laughter anymore, only angry shouting at her dogs, a harshness that hits even harder because the entire façade outside was built to appear the complete opposite.
And so the same pattern repeats itself over and over again: outside, everything revolves around recognition, around showing how strong and caring she is, how brave in the rain, how social toward the delivery driver or the dog owner. Inside, the other side surfaces again, the frustration, the need for control, the inability to remain gentle when there is no one there to validate her behavior.
We do the same things. We accept groceries too, we help too, but we do it quietly, without drama, without needing an audience. And precisely because of that, it seems to matter less to her. Because in her world, it is not the act itself that counts, but who sees it.
But it goes further than visibility. Much further. Because the behavior does not stop at the front door. It spreads throughout the entire house, through the rhythm of the day, the pace of the mornings, the pattern of control and presence. Before a favorite dog arrives, for example, a puppy from a litter she likes, she completely changes. She runs around, stomps, digs through shoeboxes for minutes, throws things around, and everything has to make way for the moment she can present herself again. And if one of her so-called own dogs is allowed to come along somewhere, then suddenly it is never her own dogs that are allowed. It is always the dog she is babysitting.
I would never leave him behind just to take a babysitting dog somewhere. The thought alone feels unbearable. Because he is not an extension of me. Not a showpiece. Not validation. He is my heart, my family, my anchor. But they? They do it effortlessly. And that feels like betrayal. As if something breaks inside me every single time I witness it. And she does not see it. Or does not want to see it. Or secretly hopes that I find it cute too.
But I do not find it cute. I find it painful. Because her dogs clearly show that they struggle with it. That it hurts them. That everything has to be shared with strangers who change every week. And her male dog marks our belongings. Not out of love, like she claims, but because he desperately wants to claim something. Himself. His place. His safety. They disappear in this house among the guests.
And maybe that is what makes it all so lonely: that every day I have to live beside someone who uses dogs as an audience, as accessories and as proof, while I give everything in me to remain loyal to what is real. And the most painful part is that I used to be exactly like everyone else who wanted to see her. In the past I felt proud when others thought she was nice. Back then I still belonged to her. Back then I believed her light was my light too. But that child stopped clapping a long time ago. She now sits with folded arms and closed lips at the edge of the stage, watching the performance continue without anyone noticing that the scenery is fake.
And we disappear with it. We, her children who no longer have a place. The adults who are here because there is nowhere else to go. The people who had to put their lives on pause while someone else fills theirs with noise, structure, chaos, dogs, raised voices, planning, and above all: presence.
Her energy pushes into everything. And so we swallow everything down. Every remark. Every boundary. Every confrontation that should have happened. Because when someone says something, it immediately becomes grand. Dramatic. Then come the tears, the lies, the distortions. Then we have to prove that we were not the problem. That it was the neighbors lying, or hating what we do, or reporting us to the municipality. And if she eventually believes us, it always ends with: “I always believe you, right?” As if she does not first automatically assume the opposite.
She says she lives like this because of us. That she has to do so much because we are here. But if we were not here, she would behave exactly the same. The same rhythm. The same dogs. The same shouting, stomping, talking, commotion. Only then without witnesses.
And then there are the moments where she laughs, waves and acts friendly toward people who have destroyed our lives. People we know have lied, who likely tipped off the municipality about our camper and had our previous car towed away. And yet she laughs at them. Still waves or even starts a conversation with them.
And I do not understand it. Or maybe I understand it too well. She wants to be liked by everyone. Even by the people who destroyed us. Because if she stays pleasant, she never has to acknowledge what really happened. Then she never has to admit that she did nothing while we lost everything.
Either way, she always blames us first. If something happens with neighbors, if something goes wrong or does not make sense, we are immediately the guilty ones. No questions, no context, no space. First comes the attack. Only after we explain everything, support it from beginning to end, after we show that we were not the problem and once again that the neighbors were lying because we are different, only then does she turn around. And then it always ends with: “I always believe you, don’t I?” As if we are the ones constantly betraying her trust. And then follows the sentence that is supposed to erase everything: “I would do anything for you.” But words mean nothing if actions do not carry them. And her actions tell a different story.
So we ask ourselves: why does she remain so excessively friendly toward people who have literally harmed us? People who lied, gossiped, had our car towed away, likely reported our camper to the municipality. Why does she wave at them? Why smile so excessively?
And the answer hurts. Because she chooses status over connection. Because she wants to belong to the normal world. Because she feels safe inside the image of being the reasonable, friendly neighborhood woman. She chooses that image over her daughter. Over Mart. Over truth.
Because if she were honest, she would have to acknowledge that she did nothing while we were drowning. That she did not protect us. That she stood there, watched, and placed the blame on us. And her ego cannot carry that. So she rewrites reality. Those people probably did not mean it that way. Maybe it was not exactly like that. We all have our sides. But meanwhile she chooses them. Again and again. And never us.
And I, I keep smiling. Waving when she leaves. Sending photos. Pretending. Because if I stop doing that, everything crashes down on me. Then I have to explain myself. Then the drama starts.
Meanwhile, we are still here. Still trapped inside her rhythm. Inside her house. Not because we want to be, but because there is nowhere else we can go without major financial support.
And when the silence finally falls, not only the pain of today rises to the surface, but also the pain from back then. From what I lost, and from us. Because only then can we truly think again, feel again and recover. And that is when the real pain arrives. Not in the middle of the day, but at night, when everything grows quiet. Then comes the grief. The fear. The regret. Then comes the mourning, not only for what happened, but for everything I have lost because of it.
And sometimes I cry for her. My girl. Because I know how differently I would have done things if I had found the courage back then to choose. To break free. To live for her instead of in fear, doubt and survival mode. And that burns. Because I can never give her back the years I never wanted her to lose.
But I keep looking and I keep writing. Because it no longer wants to be pushed away. Because I exist, even if nobody looks. Even if she keeps clapping for herself. Even if I no longer participate in the performance.