🫒 I Checked the Seal on the Olive Oil My Mother Gave Me — and I’m Not Even Sorry

You know you’ve survived narcissistic parenting when your mother gives you a bottle of French olive oil and your first reaction isn’t “Oh, how lovely” but “Has this been tampered with?”

I’m not exaggerating.

I literally checked the seal. Closely. Like it was evidence in a crime scene.

Because here’s the thing:

When your childhood felt like a psychological obstacle course run by someone who wore your pain like a badge of honour — trust doesn’t come easy. Not even when it’s packaged in imported glass.

And this wasn’t just any mother.

This was the kind of mother who could hand you a knife and say “be careful” while secretly hoping you’d slip just a little, so she could then say, “See? You never listen to me.”

The kind who uses concern as currency and kindness as a weapon.

The kind who gives gifts laced with guilt and then waits for you to open the door of obligation just wide enough so she can sneak her chaos back in.

So yeah. I checked the damn seal.

If You Know, You Know

People who haven’t lived this kind of childhood might be laughing by now, or thinking “You’re overreacting.”

But those of us who’ve been there — we get it.

We’ve unwrapped chocolates with suspicion.

We’ve triple-checked “friendly texts” for passive aggression.

We’ve smiled through compliments that feel like sniper fire.

We’ve learned that nothing is ever just a bottle of olive oil.

It’s a test. A hook. A little taste of “See, I’m nice… now let me back into your life.”

But here’s what I’ve learned:

You can check the seal, and still walk away.

You can thank her for the olive oil, and still block her phone number.

You can laugh about it later with people who actually see you, and that laughter becomes healing — not cruelty.

Survival Instincts Are Sacred

We don’t talk enough about how survival instincts are sacred.

Hypervigilance isn’t weakness — it’s a strength that kept us alive.

The fact I even have the freedom now to say “No thanks” — to her games, to her version of me, to the whole manipulative circus — is everything.

I no longer have to accept gifts that come with a price tag of guilt.

I don’t have to explain, justify, or perform.

If I want olive oil, I’ll buy my own.

With a factory seal. And peace of mind included.

If this made you laugh, wince, or nod silently in recognition — you’re not alone.

You’re not crazy.

You’re just a survivor who now reads between the lines… and checks the seal.

And honestly? That’s a fucking superpower.