I was telling my child about “tricky people” recently. My fear has always been that he and his sister will encounter a sexual predator. I never considered the psychologically tricky people.
My Aunt Jojo is one such person. She’s a 5-foot trigger ninja.
I invited this wolf in sheep’s clothing into my home. I fed her dinner and exposed my children to her.
She was here for her 50th high school reunion. Fitting and so very cliche.
In 2.5 hours, she repeatedly poked — Trying to find a spot in my soft underbelly that would what? Make me flinch?
She brought up Pedo and kept bringing him up until I reacted. She pressed on buttons with a flighty laugh or by leveraging my kids with a “Did you know…?”
I mean, I’m actually kind of in awe of her one-woman battery assault. She portrayed herself as a doting grandmother, a beloved mother, a supportive aunt, a victim of common foes and a popular socialite. One humble brag (or woe is me) at a time.
She even used her own grown children as bait. From No. 3, her obvious pride and joy, to No. 1, the utter disappointment. I said more positive things about No.1 than his own mother did.
When her tactics proved fruitless, she changed strategies to elicit a reaction — looking for camaraderie among her perceived shared traumas.
She’s cunning because information is a commodity in this twisted tree branch of a family. So, like a surprise tropical storm, she blew in hoping to wash out as much information as possible.
But the weak foundation that my life was formed upon washed away long ago. Now, my life is built on stilts and the water you’re churning doesn’t impact me.
Tropical Storm Jojo, I now see you for who you are now.
I won’t make the mistake of opening my doors again.
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