A Day at the Farm: Joy, Coffee, and That Look

8th of December, 2024.

Today, we took the kids to a farm with a Christmas market. It’s a private place, usually closed to the public, but a few times a year, they open their gates for special events. The farm has apple trees, animals, and a beautiful hilltop view. They even had a shuttle bus to take visitors up the hill, which added to the charm.

My husband had been here before with our daughter during an apple festival. It was supposed to be a nice outing for all of us this time, and in many ways, it was. The kids loved the animals, the festive atmosphere, and the "pepperkake" we bought them. But, as always, small moments can turn sharp when you’re living with a narcissist.

As we approached the main building where they served coffee and food, I asked my husband a simple question: which door was the entrance? The building had two doors—one in the front and one on the side. Both were closed because it’s December and freezing cold here.

His response hit like a slap.

He got mad, snapping that it was obvious which door to use, calling me stupid for not knowing. I wasn’t stupid; I was asking because he’d been here before, and I hadn’t. I tried to explain myself, but my words felt weak in the face of his scorn. The tension between us hung heavy as we walked inside.

I bought coffee and some pepperkake for the kids, and we stepped back outside to enjoy the fresh air. I was juggling everything—coats, kids, coffee—when I spilled half the cup all over my jacket. And then it happened.

That look.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a scene in public—of course not. That’s reserved for behind closed doors. But the look he gave me and the face he made said everything: You’re pathetic. You’re the worst. Look at you. You are a joke. It was like being pierced by an invisible dagger. No one else noticed, but I did. It’s a look I’ve come to know too well, designed to cut deep while keeping his image intact.

It hurts. It hurts so much. In that moment, it felt like he was this perfect alien, looking down on me for being human, for making a mistake, for existing. It wasn’t the spilled coffee that embarrassed me; it was that look, that silent judgment. It’s the kind of thing that makes me feel small, ashamed, and angry all at once.

When I put my daughter to bed and finally crawled into bed myself, the tears came. I felt so lonely. I know I’m not perfect—I’ve always been my own harshest critic—but this? This isn’t me. I’ve built a life I’m proud of, raising my children, managing my home, and achieving things I never thought possible. People admire what I’ve accomplished, and in past relationships, I never saw myself through a lens of failure.

But now, every day, I’m confronted with a distorted version of myself—clumsy, inadequate, always falling short. It’s not a true reflection, and deep down, I know it. Yet his gaze, his words, his subtle digs, make that false mirror feel real. It’s a version of me I can’t relate to, but one I can’t seem to escape.

Days like today remind me why I started this blog. It’s not just the big fights or dramatic blowups—it’s these small, cutting moments that make life with a narcissist so isolating.

Sharing them here feels like reclaiming a tiny bit of power, a tiny bit of my voice. If you’ve experienced moments like this, you’re not alone. And you’re not pathetic—you’re human. Let’s remind ourselves and each other of that.

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