My cousin had a lot to say to me over New Year’s Eve at that snowy mountain mansion. The same Green Mountains that fostered my healing became a pit of snakes the second I walked through the all-too-familiar door of my aunt’s home.

Two things I learned from hearing about myself from someone who watched a forest fire from the news station, and deduced he knew the accelerant. One, I am truly a stranger to my own family. And two, I don’t have to believe the lies they tell about me.

Sure, there was once what felt like great love in this circle, a circle I recently found myself in the center of. Strapped to the stakes of their punishment, the pitchforks bounced up and down.

Telling him I’d do it all over again if it brought me to where I am today shocked him; it was written on his face. Reminding him that although he may think he’s moved on from shattered pieces of his own family, froze his face further.

I know, it’s hard to move on from the pain that we’ve caused one another. It’s the hurt that makes us lash out in anger and say things we don’t mean. I’ve been there.

Maybe one day they’ll realize that the hurt they tried to cause by stonewalling, dramatic exits, whispering behind me, and giving me glares of disappointment was actually just their projected pain. They’re hurt, but not by what they think.

They’re hurt that things are seemingly broken. There is no clear way through. That accountability will always be the first step. That even though we may leave, the love stays. I saw it in his face, the love that has still stayed. Not for me, but for another, something he didn’t notice he had projected directly onto me.