By Amy Hunter of The Outnumbered Mother
Dear _____ (Feel free to add the name of the person this applies to; add many names if necessary),
Look, you seemed really cool. We started hanging out because our kids are the same age, maybe because they go to the same school, maybe because your husband’s secretary’s boyfriend is my chiropractor’s cousin. Whatever. No matter how this started, I need to end it.
I just can’t do this. Don’t cry… it’s not you, it’s me. Okay, it’s not me, it’s your kid. Yeah, that cherub behind a pair of $400 Oakleys. I know, in your eyes he can do no wrong, but guess what? He’s a fucking sociopath.
I know what you are thinking: “My kid is charming.” I hate to be the one to break it to you, sweetheart, but sociopaths are also charming. They are beyond charming. They are, “Hey, let’s drink this poisoned Kool-aid and die together because it’s better than living a lie” charming.
His charm isn’t what made me realize he was a sociopath. No. Charm, I like. I mean, who doesn’t love a charming person, even a 10-year-old? When someone can thread their words together and sound brilliant, I’m definitely intrigued. It wasn’t the charm. Damn, the charm is his only asset.
It was that smirk.
That smirk I watched his lips form while he held my youngest child’s head underwater in the pool. For a long time. Too long of a time. That smirk, which held his face tight while I demanded he apologize to me, apologize to my son, apologize in general, and he flat out refused, because saying sorry isn’t in his DNA. That smirk that alerted everyone in a 500-mile radius that he felt no shame in his game because everyone tries to drown people? REALLY?
That smirk while he lied to you about the events that occurred five fucking seconds ago as he attempted to paint me as a raving lunatic (and the look in your eyes that said you believed him). Because you think your boy is a good boy. A nice boy. The sweet little baby you brought home from the hospital and who ate every 3 hours and slept every 2.
But I don’t see that.
No one else sees that.
He doesn’t even see that.
And although I don’t have a crystal ball so I can’t see the future, I do know what happens when boys like this grow up to be men like that with moms like you.
This is why we can’t hang out anymore.
About Amy Hunter
Amy Hunter grew up in the suburbs of Long Island singing Barbara Streisand hits into her hairbrush. When she’s not writing her hilarity fueled parenting memoir as The Outnumbered Mother, she’s a Florida living, butt wiping, soccer team carting, gourmet chef attempting, tennis skirt wearing, non-tennis playing, self-proclaimed bad mamma jamma to 3 sons and a very understanding husband. You can find Amy’s work as a featured writer for Scary Mommy, Today Parents, The Huffington Post, The Mid, Mamalode, In The Powder Room, and in two anthologies: Scary Mommy’s Guide to Surviving the Holidays and It’s Really 10 Months: Special Delivery which is currently available for preorder. Follow her on Facebook and Twitter.