I feel like a lot of families have like a slow-moving bomb at their core: children become adults, and then wait for the parents to die so they can tell the truth. Telling the truth is upsetting, especially among people you love and live with. It can be powerful, like a heavy iron sword; but it can also be quiet, like a half-crooked smile. But it is always, always, messy. Like picking a scab. Once you do it, there's no putting it back. And the damage is irreparable.
In the age of information, however, people have license to tell the truth more freely, even if the damage done is still the same, or sometimes greater. That's why I refuse to get involved with parasocial family strife aired out on social media through the lenses of the "no contact" daughter or the "estranged" father or the "entitled" grandparents. It's like watching a war zone livestream pov of a soldier...another one of my online icks.
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