In May of this year, I was overwhelmed.
I found out that my kid was in the ICU, hooked up to a ventilator because he was experiencing status epilepticus, a life-threatening condition that basically means having too many seizures in a row without any break in between to recover.
This was a rapid escalation of his AUD.
He had been having seizures when he attempted to withdraw from alcohol since 2023, when the shit originally hit the fan and our family was propelled into a new reality.
The reality that my oldest child was very, very ill.
A lot happened between 2023 and the ICU stay in May, and since then, there was another ICU stay in June. It has been awful for everyone. Mostly him, of course, but the rest of us have been hanging on to the tail of the tiger, and it’s been awful for us too.
So, in May, I was overwhelmed.
I figured a break in routine and a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt, so I headed toward Tobermory. I hadn’t spent much time in that neck of the woods, and I’d heard it was pretty spectacular.
Spectacular could help.
I set my course, and my cruising speed was deliberately slow. I could have gone there and back in a day, but it’s the journey, not the destination.
After a couple of days in and around Collingwood, I scanned iOverlander for spots around Tobermory. As with many areas that have basically outlawed sleeping in your car, boondocking spots were pretty much nonexistent, so I turned to another boondocking app for other options.
“Happily Ever After Starts Here” called my name.
I made the arrangement to stay and headed there.
A breath of fresh air.
Just what the doctor ordered, as they say.
For the record, I don’t mingle with strangers. Typically.
I know some people are all about the people, and I’d really like to be that way, but I’m not. Shy, awkward, and introverted don’t generally add up to social butterfly. So, when I boondock at one of these hosting places, I’m happy to be left alone.
But I’m not rude.
Upon arrival, I was greeted by one of the proprietors of the establishment, who clearly enjoyed his gift of gab and seemed to be a bit of a storyteller. He was quite charming in a very authentic and down-to-earth kind of way.
Over the next day, and into the day after, I had a few conversations with him and his partner.
She didn’t carry quite the same kind of warmth he had, but she still felt genuine and authentic. I was warming to them uncharacteristically quickly for me, perhaps disarmed by their charm and warmth and not feeling particularly threatened, given that they were both octogenarians.
When my stay was over and I was heading out, I stopped to talk to the gentleman outside their shop and asked how he was doing.
He said, “Overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed.
For the first time, I focused in and really saw the enormity of their undertaking. There were just the two of them and a massive property to look after. There were no employees around, no adult children or grandchildren.
Just the two of them.
I sat with that information after they saw me off and wished me well, emphasizing that I was welcome back anytime.
Even after I returned to my home base, I was still musing about our conversation when I had an idea.
That place was only four hours away. It wasn’t like I wanted to do that drive every day, but maybe I could find a way to spend three or four days up there and volunteer my time, my skills, and my few-years-younger strength to help them out.
I sent them a message.
[ I’ve blacked out the identifying information.]
I didn’t get back until the end of June. There was more drama and, with it, more trauma in my life and with my son, but eventually I arranged to go for about five days.
Later, I was able to make schedule changes that allowed me to stay for about ten days at a time, come back here for four, and then turn around and do it again. That saved a little on fuel costs.
It was an arrangement made by the goddesses.
I was able to give them a few hours a day doing some of the harder labour, and I got to spend time in “Happily Ever After,” which was soothing to my soul.
And we had ice cream together every night!
Each evening, I was invited for after-dinner ice cream.
After a few dinners that were interrupted for ice cream, I soon learned that ice cream was to be a ritual. So, I got with the program and simply started showing up around the usual time. I enjoyed ice cream and listened to stories from a lifetime full of interesting adventures, challenges, and successes.
Their stories often came as a kind of duet. He would tell his part, stop at exactly the right place, and wait for her to pick it up. Dates, names, locations, and timelines were recalled in extraordinary detail.
They had clearly told these stories before, but they told them beautifully.
What got me, though, was the connection I felt. The acceptance. The way they welcomed me into their lives. The many daily hugs that came as easily as “good morning.” The gratitude they showed for my efforts, although I tried to remind them of the benefits to me as much as they would allow.
They called me family.
When I arrived, they said, “Welcome home.”
When I left, they said, “Hurry back.”
For weeks, I wrote it off as gratitude on steroids, or simply the way they were. I enjoyed it because it was uplifting and light, but I didn’t take it literally.
At some point, though, I started to believe they might actually mean it.
I started to feel as though I had somehow happened upon the extended family I didn’t know I had! Who knew?
The impact was something reminiscent of infatuation. That heightened state of enjoyment and connection with another person, usually romantic, that makes it feel as though all of life’s hard edges have been blurred out.
This is how I explain to myself why I didn’t see the disconnect.
The red flags, so to speak.
Then, about a week ago, “Happily Ever After” turned into a bad dream I couldn’t shake myself awake from.
I was standing at the edge of a cliff. A fairly low one, but it had a beautiful view.
It was full of family and caring and acceptance and belonging.
Yeah.
Belonging.
That’s the one that smarts.
Suddenly, I was falling off the cliff. On the way down, the edges started coming back into focus, and all the things that had been quietly niggling in the background became clear.
They rarely asked anything about my family, friends, or social life. They did occasionally, but it felt odd in the way it came across. Almost like an obligation.
If I was struggling with something personal and started talking about it, I quickly felt their lack of interest.
I shrugged it off.
I thought perhaps they were slightly self-absorbed. Since most of my personal stories were related to motherhood, I thought maybe they just couldn’t identify because they hadn’t raised children.
They were very interested in things related to my work.
The year 2026 has been the “Mercury in retrograde” event of the century for things going wrong at work, and they were both very interested in hearing about the challenges and triumphs in that area.
And where were the people?
Every story they told included the many people in their lives. All the people they had met in their travels. Their ties to the community. The relatives who lived nearby. The people who dropped in to visit.
But from morning until night, there were mostly just the three of us working around the place.
Still mostly them, of course. I did as much as my time allowed.
There was a man who came once a week to help out. There were some other members of their chosen family who came from time to time and helped, but mainly, I was the only consistent help.
That somehow didn’t seem odd to me at the time.
In hindsight, even some of the warmth had been explained to me.
More than once, she told me how she had learned to respond when boondockers asked, “How are you?”
Instead of answering the question, she would say:
“I’m so happy to see you.”
Or:
“I’m so happy to see that smile on your face.”
At the time, I thought it was lovely.
Now, I wonder whether it was personal at all.
You can go a long time thinking that you belong, until you hit a snag.
The snag in this case was last weekend, August 15 and 16.
Some of the “family” mentioned that they were coming for the weekend.
Then the proprietors mentioned that another member of the “family” was coming for the weekend.
I asked what was happening that everyone was coming.
“Nothing.”
Okay.
But the vibes were off.
This is where it gets a little humiliating for me. It has been a week, and I haven’t told anyone but them about this. I tried to do a somewhat anonymous Facebook post, but it didn’t go well.
I needed to vent. Just a little.
I had been getting a little excited about spending time with the other members of their chosen family and getting to know them better.
After weeks of second-guessing their words, I had finally started to feel as though I somehow belonged there.
That feeling of belonging made me open up. It made me entertain the idea of making more friends and having more extended family. While the others were there, I showed up at the house more often to socialize.
Of course, that greatly increased the odds that something would break the illusion.
There were other moments that evening, but they are not mine alone to publish.
I’m just going to leave it at this:
There were six of us, but only five places set at the table for dinner.
That’s when I put my finger on it.
The chill that blanketed the room when “herself” turned off the heat to let you know you were wrong.
Not wrong about something.
Just wrong.
The disconnect between the performance of the public story and the one that came out behind closed doors.
The little squint she was probably unaware of that made you wonder what had happened.
None of it on its own was worth a second thought, but I managed to piece it together over the course of the evening.
I was not a new member of the family.
I was not “one of them.”
I didn’t belong.
I was the help.
But being the help wasn’t the problem. I had only offered to help and would have kept doing it gladly. I was really enjoying even the parts that left me sweating buckets!
The problem was discovering that when they called other unrelated people family, they meant family. When they called me family, apparently they meant the help. Possibly help they were fond of, but ‘the help’ nonetheless.
I think the reason it took me so long to understand was that I had never expected to be anything more than help.
I wasn’t looking for or expecting any additional family. I wasn’t short on love, and I didn’t need a place to stay. I offered what I could, and I said I’d be happy to park at the gate rather than take up a space.
I asked if it would be difficult for them if I was gone for the month of September.
They laughed that I would even ask.
That’s the whole thing.
I wasn’t looking for family. I wasn’t expecting family. For weeks, I resisted taking the word seriously.
But they used it seriously enough, and often enough, that eventually I did.
Then the other family arrived, and I discovered we were not the same family.
I decided I would leave first thing in the morning. I would have left that night if it hadn’t been pitch dark by the time I got the puzzle put together. Packing up in the dark is not my idea of fun.
When I got up, I packed everything, but I was missing something I needed and didn’t know where he had put it.
I hadn’t really decided if I was going to say anything or not – I don’t enjoy confrontation but leaving without saying anything didn’t seem right to me. I told him the whole thing felt like a con and that the con had been completely unnecessary.
I would have volunteered every year I was capable, for eternity, simply for the enjoyment of being in the forest and working on their land.
I had never wanted or expected anything more than a parking spot in return, and only because my home base was four hours away.
I told him, “You were successfully convincing me that I was family until the other family showed up. When there are six people and only five place settings at the table, you can no longer believe that you belong.”
I want to call it a con because anger is easier to carry than humiliation.
And maybe it was.
I think that over the years, they learned what people respond to.
“Happily ever after.”
“Welcome home.”
“You’re family.”
Eventually, it became a kind of script. A convincing script.
Did they consider how it would impact someone they’d convinced? I don’t know.
I haven’t heard a word from either of them since I left.
Not an apology.
Not an argument.
Not even outrage at being so completely misjudged.
Nothing.
Maybe I’ve already become one of the many visitors they can’t possibly remember.
I just needed to let this out into the universe so I could breathe again.
So, I’m left with the question I still can’t answer:
Was he really overwhelmed that first day?
Or was “overwhelmed” simply where the script began?