Next Friday, join me and adventure cartoonist Lucy Bellwood, as we talk about How to Make Books!

Today’s question comes to us from Carolyn Rosner:

What do you owe your family? If there is little motivation to keep in touch, just from plain lack of interest, is that okay?

You owe them nothing.

When my father died last December I hadn’t talked to him in years. There was no single event that did it. No Seven Fishes Christmas dinner. No big blow-up. No line in the sand. It was a culmination of several events, and non-events, over a lifetime. We hadn’t lived in the same house for forty years. We hadn’t lived in the same city for thirty-plus years. At first, the visits became more infrequent, then the promises to visit became more infrequent, then the phone calls where we didn’t even bother to discuss visiting became more infrequent. Until one day I realized I hadn’t called him in a while, (he was certainly not going to call me) and that it didn’t bother me. The lack of communication brought me peace, because even as the calls had become less frequent, it felt like the vitriol never let up. Almost like he realized he now had less time to squeeze it all in. In fact, the last thing he ever told me (as a very special guest on a phone call to my mother) was to go fuck myself, which—last I checked—has no expiration date, as I am still thinking about it.

When I got the call that he’d died, I felt the loss. If in a complicated way. Sadness? Yep, that was in there. Anger? You know it. Relief? Mixed with guilt for feeling it, sure. But also a genuine curiosity of what I owed this man. And I remember asking Erika “Am I supposed to go to his funeral?” Which to some people might seem like a strange—and even selfish—question, because for them the answer to that is so easy that they don’t even think of asking the question, they just head to the airport. And, in all honesty, I am jealous of someone who doesn’t feel the need to ask if they’re supposed to go to their father’s funeral.

I don’t like admitting this, but I am jealous of friends who have strong relationships with their parents, and their siblings. I am jealous of people who go “home” for the holidays. I am jealous of friends whose brothers come to visit them. I am jealous of friends who go to the ballpark with their dad. And I’m not proud of that, because jealousy is an ugly thing. A bitter thing that leads nowhere. To be clear, I am happy that they get to do those things. I truly am. There’s just a little part of me that will always wonder why I can’t. Or don’t. And why I can’t or won’t.

To be clear, I am the one who closed the door on them. I am not taking the blame for that, I am taking the credit.

Like many of you, I read the Celeste Marcus op-ed, Cutting Your Parents Off Isn’t the Answer, in the New York Times this week. I’m truly happy that the author and their father were able to reconnect, since that appears to be something that they both wanted and were willing to do the work to get there. I’m happy for them, I truly am. But where the essay falls apart is in the idea that because it worked for them (again, congrats) it’s now a viable path for others. The implication is that if you don’t try, you’re somehow cheating yourself of a relationship that was there for you, had you tried. It’s also not lost on me that the grandparents who run the New York Times have decided to run this essay while there is still time to clip it out of the paper, mail it to their children, and then try to re-open that conversation about Thanksgiving. “And maybe you can ask Bobbie, err… I mean Megan, to tone it down about Gaza this year.”

Ultimately there are people who want to live, not in a world of reconciliation, but in a world without repercussions.

The article was reposted many times on Bluesky, with the added context that some children didn’t “cut their parents off” as much as their parents abused them, or kicked them out of the house, or put them through conversion therapy, or refused to call them by their chosen name, and on, and on, and on. The reasons were many, and they were true, and real, and valid. And while you can say that the author was only speaking to their experience, which is also true (again, congrats on the reconciliation), the title of the op-ed (and yes, I’m aware that authors don’t come up with their own titles when they write for a prodigious collection of grandparents such as the New York Times) suggests that one person’s experience can, and should, be applied to the many. Which it can’t, and it shouldn’t be.

What worked for you and your family will probably not work for me and mine. Famously, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, and for a lot of families “unhappy” would be an upgrade. It’s worth remembering that for some children, “cutting their parents off” increases the chances of tomorrow.

It’s also fair to consider when the New York Times, a publication committed to presenting both sides of the story, will publish an op-ed on why parents cut their children off. Surely, there are stories of parents kicking their children out of the house. Or stories of parents making their home so unsafe that anywhere outside the home felt safer. But I am not waiting for that to happen, since it serves none of the grandparents who run the New York Times, and may in fact reveal some stories that they don’t want revealed. (I have no secret knowledge here, I’m just playing the odds.)

But since we’re asking what we owe our families, it’s fair to ask what our families owe us. Specifically, what parents owe their children. Which is a thing I can speak to having been on both sides of that arrangement. And since humans are fucking helpless when we enter the world, I do think we owe them something, as the people who brought them here. We owe them safety, we owe them care, we owe them guidance. It’s on us to teach them how to not only navigate, but participate in the world. But here’s the amazing thing: at some point, and it’s never the same for all kids, they slowly stop needing us to do those things. They start walking on their own. They start eating on their own. They even learn how to tie their own shoes. Which, by any reasonable metric, puts us beyond the point of owing them anything. And yet, we continue to do things for them. We continue to read to them long past the point where they can read for themselves. We continue to hold their hands long past the point where they can steady themselves. We continue to eat together long past the point where they can nuke their own Hot Pockets.

And that of course, is love.

I owe my daughter, who is now 29 (holy shit), nothing. But the thought of not seeing her once in a while, or getting the random text with a funny gif, or even the occasional tech support call, would be hell on Earth. And she does all of these things, and I am so happy that she does all of these things, because she feels safe with me. In a way that I never felt safe with my parents. She does all of these things not because she feels she owes me anything (I’ve explicitly told her she owes me nothing), but because I did everything I could to make sure she knew that she could always come to me, and be met with love. And I am always happy to see her, not because she owes me anything, but because spending time with her fills me with joy. With radiance. And yes, we have had some tough conversations. We’ve had arguments. We’ve had disagreements. But when your relationship is built on love instead of emotional debt, those things can happen without endangering the foundation of your relationship.

There is this idea that we carry with us the lessons of previous generations, like a generational emotional wealth that builds and builds. And I fear that is true, regardless of whether what you’re carrying is positive or negative. When my daughter was born I was terrified I would raise her like my parents had raised me. Not every family tree bears fruit. Sometimes you have to replant.

Ultimately, after an emergency call with my therapist (who hates it when I write about her) I decided to fly to my father’s funeral. Which was a pain in the ass because I was in California, his body was in Portugal (long story), and last minute flights are expensive. I did it not because I felt like I owed it to him, but because I owed it to myself. A parent’s death is an emotional rollercoaster, and funerals don’t wait until the emotional work is done. So I went, knowing that however that emotional journey was going to go (is still going) I could at least say that I’d done this, and it was easier to regret doing this, than to regret not having done it. Therapy is amazing.

At the funeral, one of my father’s old friends told me it was good that I had come, and my mother quickly interjected that I was only doing what was expected of me. The fact that she managed to say this while two of her sons were not in attendance is still something that flashes before my eyes when I see her name on incoming phone calls, right before I hit ignore.

We owe our family nothing.

We are born helpless. We are also born with hearts ready to love others. We are so ready to love these nice people who are feeding us, and holding us, and wiping our ass for us. In fact, as babies, we don’t even realize these people aren’t us. We don’t see them as separate humans, just extensions of ourselves. That awareness takes a little bit of time to form. Which means our parents get first crack at all that love we are born with. We’re ready to freely give it to them. We reach out for their hand long after we no longer need it. We ask them to kiss our skinned knees long after we know it has no medical value. We look up to them long past the point where we actually have to look up to them. And I honestly believe that connection is there, for any parent who wanted it, and had even just a little hint of an idea of what to do with it.

It takes a lot to “cut a parent (or a sibling) off.” Usually it’s a question of safety, whether psychological or physical. And even then (and here I’ll speak from personal experience) we keep trying beyond when it’s maybe in our best interest. We take just a little bit more abuse in the hope that there’s a breakthrough. We let them demean us just a little bit more because we’re just a little bit jealous of our friends who still happily spend Thanksgiving with their parents.

Until one day we don’t.

And we find ourselves having Thanksgiving dinner with people who love us, as our full extra selves, because they themselves are fully extra and full of love. And they give back as much love as they receive, even though no one owes anyone a damn thing, but because belonging is everything.

Family is everything. But it’s not always in the orchard you were expecting.

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📓 Plenty more essays like this in a handsome book you don’t need a screen to read!

🍉 Please give to the children of Gaza.

🏳️‍⚧️ Please help our trans youth.