That Over-the-Top Anger When Your Adult Kid Gets Hurt? I Get It Now
I was folding clean socks at the kitchen counter last month when my 26-year-old daughter called, half laughing like it wasn’t a big deal, and told me her roommate bailed on their lease three months early, leaving her on the hook for $1800 in rent that she wasn’t budgeted for. By the time she finished talking, I’d crumpled one of her dad’s old cotton socks so tight in my fist that I could barely straighten my fingers after. I was already grabbing my keys to drive 45 minutes across town to go bang on that roommate’s new apartment door when my husband grabbed my elbow and said, “Honey. She’s 26. She told you she’s already talking to the landlord. Let her handle it.”
He was right, of course. I knew he was right. I’m the one who spent 18 years drilling it into both my kids that they have to solve their own problems, that they can’t rely on me to fight every battle for them. So I sat back down, but my chest was still hot, like I’d swallowed a match. I kept thinking about how when she was 12, she came home crying because the popular girls spread a rumor that she cheated on a math test, and she wouldn’t even go to school for two days. I couldn’t fix that back then, no matter how much I wanted to. And suddenly, here was another person being selfish and mean to my kid, and 14 years later, that old ache came right back, sharp as ever.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, because last year my 29-year-old son got cheated on by his long-term girlfriend, and I actually stood in the entryway of his apartment holding my car keys for two full minutes, staring at her Honda parked out at the curb, wondering if I could get away with keying the driver’s side door. He had to pull me back inside, laughing so hard he was crying, and said “Mom, what is wrong with you? She’s not worth going to jail over.” He was right, too. I was embarrassed after, I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face and thought, wow. I really turned into that mom, the one people roll their eyes at for being overprotective of grown kids. But I still couldn’t shake that feeling.
People say it’s because we just see our kids as little forever, right? That’s the generic line you see on those half-hearted Facebook mom posts. But that’s not all of it, not for me. It’s not that I think my daughter can’t negotiate with a landlord, or that my son can’t get over a bad breakup. It’s that I remember what it felt like to be the one they ran to when they were small, when every hurt felt like the end of the world. I made a silent promise to them a thousand times, when I was rocking a teething baby at 3 a.m. or patching up a scraped knee after a bike fall, that I would always keep them safe. That no one would hurt them if I could stop it. And when someone does hurt them, even when they’re adults, that promise feels broken, somehow. Like I failed at the one job I’ve had that matters more than any other.
I saw this thread on a mom group I’m in a couple weeks ago, where a woman was talking about how she was furious at her 32-year-old son’s boss for firing him wrongfully, and all these people in the comments were dragging her, saying “He’s a grown man, why can’t he fight his own battles? You’re just enabling him.” I wanted to comment back, but I didn’t, because it’s hard to explain to people who haven’t felt it that it’s not about not trusting your kid to handle it. It’s that even when they handle it perfectly, you still see the hurt under the surface. You know they went home and cried after that breakup, or that they laid awake at night worrying about how they’re gonna pay rent, even if they don’t tell you that. And all you want is to take that weight off them, because that’s what you’ve always done. When you can’t take the weight, anger is just the next best thing. It’s something to do with all that useless love that can’t fix the problem anymore.
It’s such a contradiction, isn’t it? I spent half my life pushing my kids to grow up, to be independent, to not need me. And now that they don’t need me, I still can’t turn off that part of my brain that wants to fight for them. I tell everyone I’m a chill mom, I give my kids space, I don’t meddle. But the second someone hurts them, all that goes right out the window. My daughter ended up working it out, by the way. She got the landlord to apply the roommate’s security deposit to the back rent, picked up two extra catering shifts a week, and it’s all sorted. I’m so proud of her, I really am. But I still occasionally scroll that roommate’s Instagram, and when I see she posted about her new fancy apartment, I think, I hope your sink clogs and your internet cuts out every night. It’s petty. I know it’s petty. But I can’t help it.
I don’t have some neat, wrapped-up conclusion for this. I know it’s not perfect, being this mad on behalf of a kid who can handle their own life. People probably think it’s weird, or over the top. But last week, my mom called me, all upset, because a coworker of mine had talked trash about me to a mutual acquaintance, and I’m 48 years old. My mom is 76. She was ready to call that coworker’s boss and give him a piece of her mind. And that’s when I realized it doesn’t stop, ever. No matter how old your kid is, they’re still your kid. The hurt still sticks to you, too.
I still check that old boss of my son’s LinkedIn every couple of weeks, by the way. I won’t lie. My son is doing great, he got a new job that pays way more, he bought his first house last month. I’m so happy for him I could burst. But if that guy ever posts about missing a big promotion or messing up a high-stakes project, I’ll be the first one to feel that little spark of satisfaction. Is that messed up? Maybe. But that’s just how it is. If someone hurts your kid, you lose your mind. And I don’t think that’s ever gonna change, not even when my kids have kids of their own. Not even when I’m 76, yelling at people who upset my 48-year-old kid. It just is what it is.
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