It took me years to figure out my mother was a narcissist. She would accuse me of being a bully even though she was one. Any time I pointed out something I had to deal with or put up with, behavior wise, out of her I didn’t like, I was somehow the monster. I didn’t like that she always showed favoritism over her sons and I mean next level — they were her little Gods, and my sister and I were basically living wallets. I didn’t like that she lied and manipulated me whenever she could — even on small things. Anytime she could foist the responsibility of a bill or a chore onto me, she did. I didn’t like when she would make expensive messes. I didn’t like that she would never apologize when she was in the wrong and then swell up with fake tears to get attention from her muscle, my brother, the golden child. He was her flying monkey. Even though he knew exactly what she did to me, he aided her in the abuse. She even went as far as lying about having an illness for years in order to financially abuse her children. Finally just stopped having anything to do with her because, unfortunately, not all mothers are motherly, warm, or healthy for our own peace of mind.