When we first met, I didn’t like her. At all. She and Alex had been friends for years — trauma‑bonded through their past drug use and bad decisions. Sonia was loud, opinionated, and absolutely convinced she knew how to run everyone’s life better than they did. Especially mine. She never missed a chance to tell me how to care for my disabled son, usually by accusing me of neglect and insisting Rowan belonged in a home.
I wasn’t ready to hand my child over to strangers just because she thought parenting should come with a return policy. The more people pushed, the more determined I became to prove them wrong.
After Alex’s boyfriend Logan moved in and the fights started, Sonia and I talked more. We were both worried about Alex’s safety, and neither of us liked Logan. She’d comment on the way Alex treated Rowan and the cruel things she said. I still didn’t trust Sonia, but we had a shared enemy, and sometimes that’s enough to keep a conversation going.
Then came the morning I came home from work and found my son covered in bruises and blood. Alex was nowhere to be found. Later I learned she’d been at Sonia’s house bragging about how she “molly whopped” my son for soiling his pants — as if beating a disabled child was some kind of accomplishment.
To her credit, Sonia was furious. Furious enough to call Child and Family Services and report the abuse. That moment brought us a little closer — not because I suddenly liked her, but because I was running out of allies and she was one of the last two standing.
She told me daily to reach out anytime I needed support. Of course, every time I called, I got voicemail. Texts went unanswered for days. She had a two‑year‑old and school, sure — but she always had time for the drama. That part she loved. She lived vicariously through the chaos between Alex and me, stirring the pot and delivering updates like she was hosting a reality show reunion special.
She insisted I go through her and Wade with any new information because, according to her, Wade was “too fragile” to handle the drama. Meanwhile, she was the one who couldn’t resist poking the fire.
As time went on, she started offering solutions to my homelessness — all of them terrible. Her suggestions included:
- abandoning Rowan in a hospital waiting room
- dropping him at a fire station
- pretending to be an addict so a rehab would “take care of me”
The mere thought of abandoning my son was disgusting. And I wasn’t about to fake an addiction just to get a roof over my head. I was determined to fix things myself, my way.
Then she admitted she was still talking to Alex because she was “afraid not to.” That told me everything I needed to know. She was playing both sides, and badly. Every time I confronted her, she’d swear she “barely said anything” about me. I knew it was a lie, but I convinced myself I needed the lifeline.
The breaking point came when she told me I needed to stop talking to Wade about my issues and only discuss things with her. That was it. I snapped. I sent her a long, blistering text full of every accusation I’d been swallowing for months.
I was done. Done with the fake support. Done with the pot‑stirring. Done with people who called themselves friends but acted like spectators.
Sometimes I think about her and wonder how she and her daughter are doing. But I have zero desire to reach out. That chapter is closed. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who claim loyalty but hand out betrayal like party favors.
When we first met, I didn’t like her. At all. She and Alex had been friends for years — trauma‑bonded through their past drug use and bad decisions. Sonia was loud, opinionated, and absolutely convinced she knew how to run everyone’s life better than they did. Especially mine. She never missed a chance to tell me how to care for my disabled son, usually by accusing me of neglect and insisting Rowan belonged in a home.
I wasn’t ready to hand my child over to strangers just because she thought parenting should come with a return policy. The more people pushed, the more determined I became to prove them wrong.
After Alex’s boyfriend Logan moved in and the fights started, Sonia and I talked more. We were both worried about Alex’s safety, and neither of us liked Logan. She’d comment on the way Alex treated Rowan and the cruel things she said. I still didn’t trust Sonia, but we had a shared enemy, and sometimes that’s enough to keep a conversation going.
Then came the morning I came home from work and found my son covered in bruises and blood. Alex was nowhere to be found. Later I learned she’d been at Sonia’s house bragging about how she “molly whopped” my son for soiling his pants — as if beating a disabled child was some kind of accomplishment.
To her credit, Sonia was furious. Furious enough to call Child and Family Services and report the abuse. That moment brought us a little closer — not because I suddenly liked her, but because I was running out of allies and she was one of the last two standing.
She told me daily to reach out anytime I needed support. Of course, every time I called, I got voicemail. Texts went unanswered for days. She had a two‑year‑old and school, sure — but she always had time for the drama. That part she loved. She lived vicariously through the chaos between Alex and me, stirring the pot and delivering updates like she was hosting a reality show reunion special.
She insisted I go through her and not Wade with any new information because, according to her, Wade was “too fragile” to handle the drama. Meanwhile, she was the one who couldn’t resist poking the fire.
As time went on, she started offering solutions to my homelessness — all of them terrible. Her suggestions included:
- abandoning Rowan in a hospital waiting room
- dropping him at a fire station
- pretending to be an addict so a rehab would “take care of me”
The mere thought of abandoning my son was disgusting. And I wasn’t about to fake an addiction just to get a roof over my head. I was determined to fix things myself, my way.
Then she admitted she was still talking to Alex because she was “afraid not to.” That told me everything I needed to know. She was playing both sides, and badly. Every time I confronted her, she’d swear she “barely said anything” about me. I knew it was a lie, but I convinced myself I needed the lifeline.
The breaking point came when she told me I needed to stop talking to Wade about my issues and only discuss things with her. That was it. I snapped. I sent her a long, blistering text full of every accusation I’d been swallowing for months.
I was done. Done with the fake support. Done with the pot‑stirring. Done with people who called themselves friends but acted like spectators.
Sometimes I think about her and wonder how she and her daughter are doing. But I have zero desire to reach out. That chapter is closed. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who claim loyalty but hand out betrayal like party favors.
Still alone but learning to live with it,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 