By Ann Estaki · July 20, 2026
I used to think every family was like mine.
That’s the thing about growing up inside a storm — you don’t realize you’re in one until you step outside and see clear skies for the first time. I spent eighteen years learning to read a room by the tension in my father’s shoulders, learning to measure my worth by his approval, learning that love was something you earned rather than something you were given.
It took me years to understand that the charming man everyone adored at parties was the same man who made me feel like I was never quite enough. The public smile and the private reality were two different worlds, and I lived in the space between them.
Here’s what it was like growing up with a father who embodied every single one of those fifteen red flags.
1. He Treated Others Badly When It Didn’t Benefit Them
My father was a different person depending on who was watching. I remember going out to dinner as a family and watching him transform. With the hostess, he was curt — barely making eye contact. With the waiter, he’d snap his fingers, never say please, and complain about everything from the temperature of the food to the speed of the service. But the moment someone important walked in — a business associate, a wealthy neighbor, someone who could do something for him — he’d turn on the charm. The smile would appear. The warmth would materialize out of thin air.
I learned early that respect was transactional. You got kindness if you were useful. If you weren’t, you were invisible at best and an inconvenience at worst. Once, when I was about twelve, I asked him why he was so nice to Mr. Henderson from down the street when he clearly didn’t like him. He laughed and said, “Because Mr. Henderson signs my checks.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t. It was the most honest thing he ever told me.
2. He Never Took Accountability
In my father’s world, nothing was ever his fault. Not the failed business ventures, not the shouting matches, not the broken relationships. There was always someone else to blame. The economy. His partners. The employees who “didn’t listen.” My mother, for not supporting him enough. Me, for being too sensitive, too difficult, too much.
I learned to apologize for things that weren’t my fault just to keep the peace. I’d say “I’m sorry” so many times that the words lost all meaning. And he’d accept those apologies like they were his due, never once considering that maybe — just maybe — he bore some responsibility too.
I remember once, he lost a major client because he’d been rude to their assistant. He came home furious, pacing the kitchen, and when my mother gently suggested he might have handled things differently, he turned on her with such venom that I felt the room shrink around us. “You always take everyone else’s side,” he said. “You never support me.” He was the victim. He was always the victim.
3. He Enjoyed Making Others Feel Small
My father had a gift for insults disguised as jokes. “Don’t be so sensitive,” he’d say when I flinched. “I’m just teasing.” But the teasing had teeth. “You’re going to wear that?” he’d say before a family gathering. “Interesting choice.” “Your grades are good, but they could be better. Your cousin Sarah — now she’s a smart girl.”
He’d make these comments in front of other people, never quite crossing the line into outright cruelty, always leaving just enough room for plausible deniability. And I’d laugh along, because what else could I do? If I showed that it hurt, I was “too emotional.” If I pushed back, I was “disrespectful.” The message was clear: my feelings were an inconvenience to him. And over time, I learned to swallow them.
The public smile and the private reality were two different worlds, and I lived in the space between them.
4. He Lied Often, Even About Small Things
The small lies were the ones that confused me most. He’d tell my mother he’d be home by six, then show up at nine with a story about traffic. He’d tell me we’d go to the park on Saturday, then act surprised when I reminded him, as if we’d never had the conversation at all. He’d tell people he’d gone to college when he hadn’t. He’d exaggerate his accomplishments until even I wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
When I caught him in a lie, he’d either double down or make me feel like I was the unreasonable one for questioning him. “Why do you always have to be so suspicious?” he’d say. “You’re just like your mother.” I learned not to trust what came out of his mouth. I learned to listen to what he did, not what he said. And I learned that when someone lies about small things, they’ll lie about big things too.
5. He Gossiped Constantly
Every family dinner was a post-mortem on someone else’s life. “Did you hear about the Smiths? Their daughter dropped out of college.” “Uncle John is getting divorced. I always knew it wouldn’t last.” “Your mother’s sister is making terrible choices with her life.”
He tore people apart behind their backs with surgical precision, always with a little smile, always with that tone that suggested he was just “concerned.” But it wasn’t concern. It was enjoyment. He loved the drama, the schadenfreude, the feeling of superiority that came from watching other people struggle. I knew, even as a teenager, that he was doing the same thing about me when I wasn’t in the room.
6. He Only Reached Out When He Needed Something
In our house, love was a utility you turned on when you needed something. If my father called me into his office, it was never to ask about my day. It was because he wanted me to run an errand, or fix something on the computer, or agree with him about something my mother had said. He’d be warm and engaging right up until he got what he wanted. Then he’d dismiss me with a wave of his hand, already turning back to whatever he was doing.
I learned to brace myself whenever he showed interest in my life. It was never just interest. It was always a transaction.
7. He Was Rude When He Was Angry
Anger was the weather in our house. You never knew when it would hit. The first time I saw my father truly explode, I was seven. My mother had cooked vegetarian food and did not make any meat dishes, and he came home and threw the plate full of food across the dining room, hitting the TV. Rice flew everywhere, and I saw my mother’s face fill with sadness and fear. I remember the door slamming. The shouting. The way my mother’s face went pale and still, and how my stomach started to hurt.
He never hit us. But the words were weapons of their own kind. He called my mother useless, incompetent, worthless. He threw his keys across the room. He stormed out and didn’t come back for hours. Afterward, there was never an apology. There was only the silence, and then the return to normalcy, and the unspoken understanding that none of us would ever mention it again.
I became hypervigilant. I learned to read his moods like a weather report, to monitor the barometric pressure of his anger, to make myself as small and invisible as possible when the storm clouds gathered.
Anger was the weather in our house. You never knew when it would hit.
8. He Took Pleasure in Others’ Failures
My father didn’t just enjoy success — he needed other people to fail so he could feel better about himself. When my aunt lost her job, he talked about it for weeks. “Well, she never really applied herself,” he’d say with a little shrug, as if her misfortune was simply a reflection of her character. When a neighbor’s business went under, he practically glowed. “I always said that wasn’t a viable model,” he’d announce, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. He measured his worth against other people’s losses. And somehow, he was always winning.
9. He Used Guilt to Control People
My father was a master of emotional manipulation. If I wanted to spend time with friends instead of staying home, he’d say, “I guess your family isn’t important to you anymore.” If my mother needed a break, he’d sigh and ask, “After everything I do for you, this is the thanks I get?” He kept a mental ledger of every favor, every sacrifice, every small kindness, and he pulled out that list whenever he needed leverage. “Remember when I did that thing for you?” he’d say. “Remember how I helped you with that problem? You owe me.”
But the debt could never be paid. The goalposts were always moving. I could never do enough to “earn” his approval, because the point wasn’t to earn it — the point was to keep me trying.
10. He Lacked Empathy
When my grandmother died, my father went to the funeral and performed the role of the grieving son perfectly. But I saw him later, after everyone had left, shrugging it off like she’d been a distant acquaintance rather than his mother. “She lived a good life,” he said. “No point dwelling on it.” I knew he’d never sat with her in the hospital. Never held her hand. Never told her he loved her. The emotional work of caring for the dying and the suffering was beneath him, or maybe it was just too uncomfortable for him to bear.
When I went through my first breakup as a teenager, I was sobbing in my room, and he stood in the doorway, looking almost annoyed. “This isn’t the end of the world,” he said. “You need to get over yourself.” I learned not to bring my pain to him. He wasn’t a safe place for it.
11. He Made Everything About Himself
My father had a rare gift for turning any conversation into a monologue about himself. I remember trying to tell him about a teacher who’d inspired me in high school. Before I’d finished my sentence, he was already talking about a professor he’d had in “college” — a college I later learned he never actually attended. I’d try to talk about my anxiety, and suddenly he was talking about his own stress, his own burdens, how no one understood how hard he had it. He never asked follow-up questions. He never seemed genuinely curious about my life. I was an audience for his performance, not a person with my own story.
12. He Used Charm to Get What He Wanted
My father could be the most captivating person in any room when he wanted to be. I remember watching him at parties, turning on the charisma like a faucet, making people laugh and feel special. He’d remember names, ask questions, make eye contact. He’d be generous with compliments and full of easy warmth. People adored him.
But at home, when the door closed, the mask came off. The charm was only for people who had something to offer. It wasn’t genuine warmth. It was a tool. And I knew, because I’d seen the other side, that none of it was real.
13. He Isolated People From Support Systems
The isolation was subtle at first. My father would make little comments about my friends. “Does she really care about you, or does she just use you for your homework?” He’d question my mother’s relationship with her sisters. “They’re so judgmental. Why do you spend so much time with them?” He preferred us to be reliant on him. He’d tell us the world was full of people who would betray us, and that only family could be trusted. And then he’d be the one to betray us, but by then, we had nowhere else to go.
My mother’s friendships withered over the years. My own friendships became harder to maintain, because it was always so much easier to stay home and avoid the fight.
14. He Acted Differently Around Different People
I used to think of my father as a chameleon, shifting his personality to match whoever he was speaking with. With his wealthy friends, he was cultured and refined. With his employees, he was commanding and decisive. With his brothers, he was competitive and sharp. With me, he was dismissive and impatient. I never knew which version of him I was going to get. And that inconsistency made me feel like I was walking on eggshells, always trying to figure out what he needed me to be.
15. He Never Tried to Grow
The hardest part, looking back, is that he never changed. I’d have conversations with him as an adult, hoping for some acknowledgment, some moment of self-awareness. But he was exactly the same man he’d always been — still blaming others, still refusing to apologize, still convinced he was always right. “People don’t change,” he’d say. And he said it like it was a universal truth, not just a convenient excuse for his own stagnation.
Where I Am Now
It’s taken me years to recognize the patterns I grew up with. Years to unlearn the lessons I absorbed about love and worth and safety. Years to realize that kindness isn’t supposed to be conditional, and that someone who treats you like a burden doesn’t have your best interests at heart.
I still have moments where I hear his voice in my head. “You’re too sensitive. You’re too much. Why can’t you just let things go?” But I’m learning to quiet that voice. I’m learning to trust the people who show up consistently, who apologize when they’re wrong, who never make me feel small.
And I’m learning that the man who gave me half my DNA was not the final authority on who I am.
Some people never change. But I can. And I will.
I grew up in the shadow of someone who embodied every one of those fifteen signs. And it took me a long time to realize that his inability to love me the way I deserved wasn’t a reflection of my worth — it was a reflection of his own. Some people never change. But I can. And I will.
If you’re reading this and recognizing someone in your own life, I hope you know that you deserve better than conditional love. You deserve people who see you, not just what you can give them. And you deserve to trust your own instincts when something feels wrong.
The signs are there. The only question is whether you’re ready to see them.
References
The fifteen warning signs used as headings in this essay come from a list of “red flags” of a harmful or manipulative person that circulates widely online. I have not been able to locate the original author or website. The memories and reflections under each heading are my own. If you recognize the source of the list, please let me know so it can be credited properly.
Written by Ann Estaki for my sister Pauline, who sees our parents in a different light, as she was never brought up by my father but observed everything. She was cuddled and kept in a box by my mother, away from our father.
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