Brother D. moves in

It has not been an easy path for my brother this past five months. He had a house under construction (final phases) when the bank failures occurred last fall. It was not going to be easy to get a regular mortgage on the house, as a few things remained (carpet, painting..) that made it hard to get a conventional loan.

The bank of "Koverma", our parents', was toying with my brother in a way that would remind any normal reader... of a horrible fairy tale.

A BPD parent at their worst, CAN feel just like a wicked witch of the West, or the stepmother in Hansel and Gretel.

My brother and I are not children in the earliest sense of the word, but I did go back to childhood pain for a good month while I saw my own inability to help him out, and witnessed our BPD parent finding all the reasons in the book. to not help out her son.

Just yesterday I heard the good news. The woodcutter was allowed to rescue his son's family! My brother, his wife and their three children (the last just born in January), are unpacking in their new home. Our parents did come to help, almost at the zero hour.

I am grateful that our parents did come through, but my gratitude has a stain on it, for all the unnecessary suffering that I witnessed. The stain of shame our BPD worked so hard to create and nurture.

I ask myself, will my family of origin ever allow us to have gratitude for them doing the right thing at the RIGHT time? Without shame?