My parents were cold narcissists. As an adult, once they signed everything to me, I signed our entire solar system to the alliance. I have plenty to live on, my mansions, my gardens, and so much more. But now the halls are full of life and youthful laughter. It actually feels like a home, not a museum. My parents? They live in their wing, their own little world. I'm letting them live the remainder of their golden years in peace. Under watch, and proper medical care, of course. -- Anon Guest
You might think it's cold. It kind of is. It's kind of petty, too. You would be right, but I can explain.
My earliest memory was crying because I wanted a Raggy May doll, and they told me I had to have a teddy bear or nothing. Teddy bears fit the aesthetic of the nursery. Which was fifty shades of beige. There once was a heritage green cushion, but it was quickly disposed of for being "too disturbing" for the peace of the childcare wing.
They decided every aspect of my life. The clothes I wore, the subjects I learned, the toys I was permitted to play with, the musical instruments I learned. Everything. Right down to when I could relieve myself and what kinds of food I was permitted to eat and when.
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