In the quiet suburbs of Texas, where the hot sun beats down relentlessly like a reminder of old wounds, sits a woman named Elena, reflecting on five decades of marriage to Mark. They’ve built a life together—raising kids, weathering storms, sharing laughs from the porch swing—but now, memories from the past have resurfaced, sharper than thorns on a rosebush. It was decades ago, but Elena swears she can still see the silhouettes in her mind: three women, not just one, with whom Mark had affairs. He admits to one—the one he claims was only twice, only once consummated—but the others? He brushes them off as figments of her imagination, his words laced with denial that stings like salt in a cut. No apology comes forth, no heartfelt confession. Elena feels the anger bubbling up, hot and fierce, more about the lies than the acts themselves. “Why won’t he just own it?” she whispers to herself at night, tossing in bed sheets that feel like chains. She’s not crazy; her gut, that intuitive compass, screams the truth. Yet, Mark clams up, refusing to discuss it, and their home echoes with unspoken tensions. Elena wonders if seeking therapy could unravel this knot, but she’s paralyzed by hurt. At 70-something, with gray hairs mingling with stubborn streaks of color, she longs for closure—for him to say he’s sorry, genuinely, so she can rage, process, and maybe forgive. Is she wrong to demand this truth, to yearn for peace after half a century? In her heart, it’s not about revenge; it’s about respect, about healing a breach that time hasn’t sealed. She imagines a conversation where he admits it all, tears streaming, but reality is a wall of silence. Friends suggest divorce, but she’s invested too much—love isn’t a switch. Instead, she contemplates journaling her feelings, listing the betrayals to externalize the pain. Abby, she knows from the column, would advise patience, but patience feels like surrender. Elena walks the neighborhood trails, questioning if truth is overrated when lies preserve a fragile facade. Yet, without it, anger festers like an untreated wound, poisoning the tenderness they once shared. She pictures their wedding photo—smiling faces—and wonders if those vows meant anything. Forgiveness seems distant, but perhaps it’s the key to her own release. In this Texas dusk, Elena ponders her next move, the weight of 50 years pressing down, hoping Mark wakes up before it’s too late. Therapy looms as a bridge, not just for her, but for them, to navigate these choppy waters without capsizing the ship of their history.
Dear Abby’s response cuts through like a clear Texas sky after a storm. Abby listens—not just hears—and tells Elena she’s already furious enough; what she craves is acknowledgment, that elusive apology from Mark’s lips. Suggesting counseling, Abby emphasizes dissipating anger, not fueling it with truths that may never come. Elena reads this, nodding slowly, her hands trembling. She realizes therapy could be her lifeline, a space to voice decades of suppressed hurt without judgment. Imagine sitting with a therapist, unpacking each affair like old suitcases, not to confront Mark, but to lighten her load. Is this weakness? No, it’s self-care after 50 years of martyrdom. Abby reminds Elena that she deserves peace, not perpetual battle. In group therapy, she might find kindred spirits—women who’ve faced similar deceptions—and through their stories, hers becomes less isolating. The anger, Abby notes, is valid, but holding onto it is like carrying rocks up a hill forever. Elena envisions losing the burden, waking lighter, focusing on joys like grandkids instead of ghosts. Yet, Mark remains stubborn; forcing the issue might fracture everything. Abby’s wisdom: move on, for her own sake. Elena, alone in her kitchen, brews tea and considers reaching out to a marriage counselor. Perhaps writing Mark a letter, expressing her needs, could bridge the gap. Forgiveness isn’t condoning; it’s freeing. Abby’s words resonate: you can’t control him, but you can control your healing. As nights pass, Elena starts small—meditation apps, walks with friends—building resilience. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it dims, replaced by a quiet determination. In this advice, she finds not pat answers, but permission to prioritize herself, to craft a future where past indiscretions don’t dictate her happiness.
Meanwhile, across the coast in sunny California, a young man named Alex grapples with a different kind of loss, one that fractures his sense of family and tradition. His mother, Rita, has lost two of her dearest friends after nearly 50 years of closeness—bonded over holidays, lake vacations where they laughed under blue skies, ski trips where snowflakes danced, and countless shared moments that wove their lives together like threads in a tapestry. These women were godmothers, surrogate moms to Alex, present for birthdays, graduations, even heartbreaks. But politics splintered it all; deep divides over beliefs led to abrupt severance, as if the friendships never existed. Can it really be so simple? Alex feels the ache in his chest, like a missing limb. His mother, devastated, questions if she should fight or surrender. Alex, in his mid-20s, recalls summers at the lake house, roasting marshmallows, telling stories till dawn—now silenced by ideology. He wonders about human connections: are they brittle when tested? Rita, a gentle soul, misses the phone calls, the secrets shared, the support during tough times. Political rifts aren’t new, but this feels personal, a betrayal of decades of love. Alex messages old group chats, but gets radio silence, a new form of erasure. He urges his mom to try reconciliation—write letters, explain perspectives—but fears it’s futile. The pain ripples through him; these aunts shaped his worldview, teaching kindness beyond politics. Can time mend this? Or must they accept the void, like a chasm in the family tree? Alex navigates his own grief, realizing adults’ choices impact the next generation’s sense of stability. He suggests therapy for Rita, to process this abandonment. Yet, the advice feels hollow; friendships orphaned by politics seem irreparable. In this West Coast haze, Alex contemplates cultivating new traditions, but nostalgia lingers like fog. The simplicity of jettisoning bonds horrifies him—is ideology more sacred than shared history? He ponders societal currents, how divisions tear at the fabric of communities. For Rita, it’s a lesson in impermanence, but also in resilience.
Abby addresses Alex’s sorrow with a wisdom, tinged by realism, echoing the miles between coasts. She sympathizes deeply, understanding the sting of lost connections woven so tightly. When beliefs entrench to destroy golden friendships, recovery is rare; time often can’t heal wounds inflicted by ideologies. Abby advises Rita to look forward, not back—to seek new companions less divisive, where chats flow freely without the shadow of election debates. Alex reads this, heart heavy, knowing it’s pragmatic counsel. Restoration might seem possible through dialogue, yet Abby warns against forcing bridges that the other side won’t cross. He imagines Rita hosting gatherings with open-minded folks, building anew what was ripped away. Politics, Abby notes, shouldn’t be the enemy of kinship, but sadly, it often is. Alex encourages his mom to reflect on what drew those friendships—what if they underlined kindness over creed? Perhaps a gentle outreach: “I miss our talks, not our debates.” But Abby’s caution rings: risk rejection to preservation. In therapy, Rita could unpack the hurt, transforming loss into growth. Alex, too, feels relief in not pressuring—he’s learned authenticity matters. New friendships bloom organically, like wildflowers after rain. The California sunshine beckons hope; maybe this rift births stronger roots elsewhere. Abby’s empathy humanizes the pain, validating emotions without false promises. For Alex, it’s about honoring legacies—faint smiles at past photos—while embracing change. He volunteers with non-partisan causes, forging bonds on common ground. Surrendering old ties isn’t defeat; it’s evolution. In this response, Alex finds solace, realizing Grandma Abby gets it, offering a path to rebuild without illusion.
On the East Coast in New Jersey, a seasoned therapist named Clara wrestles with shadows from her past, her own life a tumultuous novel she can’t edit. At 75, she raised three children mostly alone after a divorce 35 years ago, their father vanishing like smoke. Her days brimmed with work, bills, emotional labor—she juggled sessions with strangers while nurturing her kids, yet guilt gnaws at her now. Did she do enough? Were her efforts, stretched thin by resources and fatigue, sufficient? Her adult children seem ungrateful, disrespectful; their interactions transactional, devoid of warmth. Clara yearns to erase this guilt, to stop overcompensating for the absent dad by over-giving—gifts, favors, unsolicited advice. But recognition feels unreachable; their attitudes, set like concrete, unlikely to soften. As a therapist, she knows this trap: parental martyrdom disguised as love. Nights find her staring at walls adorned with framed credentials, questioning if her wisdom aids patients but blinds her own heart. The disrespect stings—texts ignored, calls unanswered—yet she analyzes it: perhaps echoes of their father’s departure, projected onto her. Clara envies her own profession’s self-awareness, yet she’s trapped, doling out therapy to others while denying herself. How to shed this burden? Therapy for therapists seems a cliché, but maybe necessary—unloading to a colleague, processing the impossible: changing adult kids who won’t change. She imagines dialogues where appreciation flows, but reality is distance. Grandkids offer joy, yet can’t erase the ache. Clara hikes New Jersey trails, pondering boundary-setting—less giving, more self-love. Books on codependency line her shelf; she reads at dawn. Is disrespect permanent? Or projection? Her career demands detachment, yet personal ties pull. Guilt feels like a companion, ever-present; shedding it requires confronting it head-on.
Dear Abby responds with compassion, affirming Clara’s struggle as a universal wound. As a psychotherapist, Clara surely grasps she can’t purchase affection—love can’t be bartered. Yet, the pain persists, unchangeable alone, so Abby advocates seeking therapy for proactive healing. Clara nods, recalling peers who crumbled under similar burdens. In sessions, she could dissect guilt’s roots: postpartum devotion isn’t failure; kids’ ungratefulness might stem from unresolved hurts. Compensation as a reflex must stop; boundaries, like walls around her heart, to halt overpouring. Abby encourages recognizing limitations: she’s human, not a superhero. Therapy might unveil sabotaged self-worth, reprogramming it post-75. Clara envisions group therapy with fellow parents, sharing war stories, finding camaraderie. Minimal change from kids? Focus inward—hobbies, travel, redefining legacy beyond approval. Forgiveness for herself: she tried with what she had. As nights deepen in New Jersey, Clara drafts a plan: reduce calls, invest in self, journal gratitudes. Abby’s note on therapists needing therapists hits home—ironically humanizing. In this vulnerability, Clara finds strength, her profession’s mirror reflecting back. Pain softens with professional help, replacing guilt with grace. She crafts affirmations: “I was enough.” New routines emerge—yoga, writing memoirs—filling voids formerly occupied by fruitless efforts. Forgiveness extends to kids, releasing expectations. Abby’s advice catalyzes rebirth, transforming struggle into serenity.
In weaving these stories together—a Texan wife’s quest for honesty, a Californian son’s lament over severed bonds, a New Jersey therapist’s battle with guilt—Abby’s column offers solace in shared human frailty. Founded by Pauline Phillips and penned by Abigail Van Buren (Jeanne Phillips), Dear Abby has comforted millions since its inception, a sanctuary for raw emotions. You can reach out via www.DearAbby.com or P.O. Box 69440, Los Angeles, CA 90069, finding community in the unseen. These tales remind us of life’s complexities: infidelity’s scars, ideological rifts, parental doubts—all navigable with courage. Abby’s wisdom, devoid of platitudes, urges action: therapy as a tool, boundaries as shields, forward gazes as renewal. In our fragmented world, her advice fosters empathy, healing divisions one heart at a time. For Elena, Alex, Clara—and readers like us—it’s a call to confront truths, seek support, and embrace imperfection. Through Dear Abby, resilience blooms anew, transforming pain into purpose.
