As They Wish

I should have accepted it sooner.

Some people simply do not value me the way I value them. They want a relationship that costs them almost nothing: a smile at the holiday table a couple of times a year, an obligatory check-in every few months, the familiar script of “How’s life?” “Good.” “You?” “Good.” “Talk soon.” And then silence until the next scheduled gathering.

That’s fine. If that’s all they want, I’ll give it to them.

But I need to be honest about what that means on my side.

What we used to have is gone. They chose to change it. The deeper conversations, the unforced daily check-ins, the sense that we actually mattered to each other beyond the calendar—those were not mutual priorities anymore. My frustration and anxiety came from still expecting the old version of the relationship where we actually mattered to each other. Where when we were apart there was excitement to say I missed you, guess what happened, and spilling the tea so to speak. Genuine desire to share freely and wanting to. That expectation was my problem. I can solve it by releasing it.

So I will. I’ll show up when it’s absolutely required. I'll disappear when it's not. I’ll exchange the polite updates. I’ll keep the surface pleasant and shallow and meaningless. No more reaching, no more hoping the next message might feel like it used to or that it matters anyway.

The cost of that arrangement, though, is not zero.

A relationship reduced to occasional, low-effort contact is, for me, meaningless. And meaningless things do not get space in my life or my family’s life. They don’t get the emotional real estate, the consideration, the quiet loyalty I once offered freely. When someone chooses the thin version, they eventually receive the thin version back—not out of spite, but out of accuracy.

I suspect this is the outcome many people fear without fully recognizing it. They want the option of distance without the consequence of becoming distant. They want the comfort of knowing someone still cares while investing almost nothing in return. But care that is never reciprocated eventually stops being care. It becomes memory. And memory, is not something I'm good at anyway, so it doesn't even become that.

I’m not angry about it anymore. Anger before was just the sound of me still bargaining. Acceptance is quieter. It sounds like this: I will meet you at the level you have chosen. And at that level, you will not mean what you once did. We valued family. Family doesn't value us, they don't value each other either though. My wife tried to tell me years ago that they no longer wanted us in any meaningful way. I should have listened sooner. Accepting it took longer for me than it did for her. She’s always been the better person. She’s always been right. I’m listening now.