No Hug For You

A Grown Woman’s Meltdown Over A Boundary She Earned.

They watch my every move. They are obsessed with me.

Today, my 13-year-old son went to enjoy some Canada Day festivities with his best friend. While there, a woman, my biological sister, approached him and went in for a hug.

He ran.

Meanwhile, I was at home, minding my business, flipping eggs and laughing with my boyfriend and kids, when my phone rang.

It was my mother.

“Wanna hear something wild?” she said.

Me: “Always.”

Here’s the gist of that call:

My biological stranger (because let’s be real, she’s not my sister in any meaningful sense) texted my mom to inform her that I’ve done a wretched job raising my son, Emerson.

Why?

Because he refused to hug her.

Because he said, “Oh no, you’re my mom’s sister,” and RAN.

She was appalled. “ALL I’VE EVER DONE IS LOVE THAT BOY,” she cried.

Let’s be clear:

You haven’t seen him in EIGHT YEARS.

He was five.

He’s thirteen now.

You are a stranger.

And I could not be more PROUD that my son recognized that and set a boundary.

You don’t get access just because you share blood. My kids owe you nothing. Not a wave. Not a smile. Not a damn hug.

And it gets worse.

She went on to call my son, and I quote, “a gay fag” because he wears rainbow Crocs.

She insulted my haircut, saying I look like a “disgusting lesbian.”

She criticized my boyfriend, calling him “creepy and disgusting,” because he treats me well and doesn’t abuse me like the man they think I should’ve stayed with.

She shared my Get Ready with Bre video and told my mom, “No good mother gets naked on camera and asks for money.”

Then she concluded with this:

“The demons of Breanna have passed onto you, Mother. I wouldn’t touch either of you with a 1000-foot pole.”

The audacity of these so-called Christians is beyond belief. The ego. The entitlement. The venom disguised as virtue.

But you know what?

Every insult thrown at me is a medal of honor.

It means I’ve healed.

It means I broke the cycle.

It means I am nothing like you.

And that makes me proud beyond measure.

Proud to be a Charleton.

Proud to be a mother of a boy who knows how to protect himself.

Proud to live freely, loudly, and in my truth.

To my biological stranger, since I know you’re watching:

It’s you’re, not your, when you’re trying to throw shade.

And if you’re really as bold as your unhinged texts suggest, message me directly and leave my mother the hell out of it but we both know you don’t have the balls, the backbone, or the brain for that.

And finally?

Eat shit.

With all due disrespect,

Bre 😘