Today, I speak to you in raw honesty—about a distant echo that has returned like a boomerang, heard once more across the years.It happened to both myself and my husband: we share the same mirrored wound—the children who drift away, who offer no space for dialogue.It leaves behind a sensation of living death—as though one had been erased from history itself. And the inevitable question lingers: why?The answer is uncomfortable, yet real: parental alienation exists, and it is brutal. When an adult plants a single narrative in the mind of a child, shaping them from a young age, the story can linger for life. To challenge it later would mean facing truths almost unbearable:To recognise that one believed lies.To admit one rejected, unjustly, a mother or father.To accept, perhaps, that one was manipulated.And not all have the courage to confront such revelations.I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.In my own story, I tell myself: “I never did that. I never abandoned my parents, though they tore each other apart.”But I see now the difference: my pain made me resilient, not vindictive. I chose to stay, to endure, to accompany—even through anger—because my inner foundation was different. Not every child chooses the same. Some flee. Others freeze the bond. Others place it in indefinite suspension.Is it lack of love, or economic convenience? Perhaps a mixture of both. Some align themselves with the one who offers more comfort, more benefits, more “security”. Or simply with the one who controlled the narrative from the beginning.That not-being—that void—hurts more than a blow.For when death comes, there is mourning, a ritual, a farewell.But when a living child declares you dead to them, no ritual can soothe, no symbolic burial can close the wound. It is a loss without goodbye, without explanation, without body, without words.It is like walking each day with a ghost:– the ghost of what was,– the ghost of what might have been,– the ghost of the conversation that never comes.And it wears one down. It exhausts.For when one dies, there is an ending.But when one is erased by the living, one hangs in a void.Suspended. Forgotten. Yet still alive.And so, in spite of the silence, we live.In spite of the erasure, we love.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

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