The Golden Child and the Scapegoat.

Chapter 1: The Streets of Hammondville.

I remember not long after my parents separated, moving to Hammondville. Everything felt new the school, the streets, the daily walk. I adjusted the only way I knew how: by paying attention. I learned to notice the smallest details, like a coloured mailbox on the corner, or a car that was always in the driveway morning and afternoon.

These markers became my safety net. They taught me awareness and helped me build a kind of street smarts that I later carried into my home life. Learning to read moods, tones, and silences. I built bubbles around myself to survive, always watching, always adjusting, always bracing for what might come.

Chapter 2: The Burden of Birthdays

Family celebrations were never joyful for me. My sister and I were born three weeks apart, her at the end of March, me in mid-April. I watched her demand extravagant gifts, negotiate with my mother, and have her desires fulfilled without hesitation.

One memory stands out: her 16th birthday. She wanted a Sweet 16, all pink. I watched my mother spend two exhausting days in the kitchen making a striped fondant cake, I tried to help where I could. When it came time to celebrate, I stood in the yard and watched that same cake get thrown around like trash. I helped clean up the mess, thinking what a waste of time, energy, and money. All while listening to my sister rant and my mother fold under the pressure.

That was the moment I decided birthdays weren’t for me. I stopped asking for anything. I stopped acknowledging the day and I learned to disappear on my own birthday and that pattern stuck. Even now, I still struggle to see my birthday as a day worth celebrating.

Chapter 3: A Mother Who Celebrates Anyway

Becoming a mother changed everything. My pain became my compass. The very thing I was denied, I now give freely. My boys birthdays are full of balloons, special breakfasts, home made cakes or cookies, laughter, and joy. Whatever they dream of, I make it happen. Because I know what it feels like to miss out and I refuse to let them feel that way.

But even in motherhood, the cycle tried to repeat itself. My family still found ways to steal moments of joy.

One year in Jamisontown, my stepmother stood in the middle of my child’s birthday and announced her bank account had been hacked, instantly pulling all focus onto herself. Another year in Emu Plains, my ex-brother-in-law and ex-husband turned the day into a scene of arguments and meltdowns, until my ex brother-in-law smashed his toe and this became a drama in the backyard.

And then there was the time my sister resurfaced after nearly a decade out of my life. Eight months back and she stood in my home criticising how I spent my money. When I asked her to leave, she stormed out, screaming on my front step and excused her behaviour by announcing her pregnancy, as though that erased her cruelty. That was her 'big reveal.'

Chapter 4: Golden Child vs. Scapegoat

Growing up in a narcissistic family taught me something I wish I never had to learn: when there are two children in a toxic home, one becomes the golden child, the other becomes the scapegoat.

The golden child learns entitlement, manipulation and how to control the narrative. The scapegoat learns silence, resilience and how to absorb blame just to keep the peace.

I was the scapegoat. The one who spoke up, the one who saw abuse and dared to name it. The one who wanted nothing more than to be loved and was punished for it.

Chapter 5: Lessons in Pain

Moving between parents, houses and hands that were supposed to protect me.
Instead, I faced every form of neglect, hate and abuse. The walls changed, the roofs changed, but the story didn’t. Everywhere I went, safety was missing.

I learned early that some places wear the disguise of “home,” but they are not home at all. Some people wear the title of “family,” but they are not family at all.

In that shifting ground, through constant moves, empty promises, and stolen moments, I grew sharper. This is what raised me and what taught me to read people like maps. This is how I survived, staring down my abusers day after day and still standing.

But those lessons carved something permanent in me. I would never treat another person the way I was treated. I promised myself I would always show up, be consistent, and love fully.

I learned how to read a room before anyone spoke.
I learned how to hide my pain before anyone could use it against me.
I learned how to survive even when the air itself felt hostile.

At the same time, I learned something just as important: who I will never let back into my life. These are the people who called DCJ on me with false claims. The people who never once picked up the phone to hear my side. The people who believed lies because it was easier than breaking the cycle.

The truth I see now is this: whether you perform abuse or condone it, there is no difference.

But survival wasn’t the end of my story. Because the same child who felt unsafe everywhere she went is the same woman who now refuses to repeat those patterns.

I am the safe place I always needed.