My Parents Wanted Me And My Siblings To All Look Identical.

The Legal Response and a Return to Silence

The calls from my parents stopped after the CPS visit. The silence was eerie, unsettling, but the flying monkeys intensified.

Family members I barely knew were calling Lily’s workplace, trying to get her fired for corrupting me and destroying our family. Someone posted on my firm’s Facebook page, calling me an abusive brother who’d abandoned his disabled sister.

My mother had apparently launched a full-scale PR campaign, telling everyone who’d listen that I’d refused to help during a medical emergency, that I’d sicked CPS on them out of spite, that I was a monster who valued money and vacations over family. The lies were so pervasive, so confidently told, that some people believed them.

Dr. Griffiths had predicted this. “When you stop enabling dysfunction, the dysfunctional people will rewrite history and paint you as the villain,” she’d said.

“Because accepting that they’re the problem would require self-reflection and change, which they’re incapable of. It’s easier to blame you.” I knew she was right intellectually, but reading messages from cousins and aunts calling me evil, seeing my name dragged through social media mud, feeling my reputation shredded by people who didn’t know the truth—it hurt in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

On September 8th, 6 days before we were scheduled to fly home, I received an email from an attorney named Michael Reeves with Reeves Family Law Group. The subject line said, “Legal consultation of Brennan family harassment case.”

He explained that he specialized in family law, particularly cases involving parental alienation, exploitation, and harassment. He’d been referred to me by Dr. Griffiths, who thought I might need legal representation given my parents’ escalating behavior.

“I’ve reviewed the documentation Dr. Griffiths forwarded with your permission,” he wrote.

“You have an extremely strong case for harassment, defamation, and potentially parental exploitation. I’d like to discuss your options in a complimentary consultation.” We had that consultation from a pub in a small Highland village.

Lily and I huddled around my phone at a corner table while Michael Reeves laid out our legal options in clear, precise language. “Bottom line,” he said, “your parents have no legal claim on your time, money, or labor. You are not responsible for their children. You never were. Any suggestion that you have legal obligations to provide child care is completely baseless.”

He explained that the defamation—hours telling people I was abusive, neglectful, cruel—could potentially be actionable if it damaged my professional reputation, though those cases were hard to prove. The harassment campaign through third parties, getting family members to flood my phone and contact my workplace, could support a restraining order.

“I recommend documenting everything, which you’re already doing,” Michael said.

“Every text, every call, every social media post. If you want to pursue a cease and desist letter, I can draft one. It would formally notify your parents that they must stop contacting you directly or through intermediaries, stop making false statements about you, and leave you alone.” “It’s not legally enforceable like a restraining order, but it creates a paper trail and shows you’re serious. Most people back down when they realize there are actual legal consequences.”

Lily and I agreed to have the letter drafted. We would decide whether to send it after we got home and could assess the situation face to face.

But just having an attorney, having someone with legal expertise in our corner, made me feel less powerless against the onslaught. We finished our honeymoon.

We toured more castles, drank more whiskey, hiked through landscapes so beautiful they didn’t seem real. But every moment was shadowed by my phone buzzing with abuse, by the knowledge that my family was imploding while I was an ocean away, by the creeping guilt that maybe I should have just come home.

We flew back on September 12th, landing in LA at 6:33 p.m. After 15 hours in the air, I turned my phone off airplane mode and braced for the usual avalanche.

Instead, there was just one message from a number I didn’t recognize. “Hey, it’s Jordan. Got a burner phone so mom can’t monitor this. Can we talk, please?”

I called him from baggage claim. He answered immediately, his voice tight and strained.

“Are you back?” he asked.

“Just landed,” I said.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Jordan was quiet for a moment.

When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Mom and dad are telling everyone you called CPS to destroy the family. They’re saying you made everything up to punish them. Aunt Diane and Uncle Paul were here yesterday and it was like this whole intervention thing about what a terrible person you’ve become.”

He paused. “Riley and I know that’s bullshit. We’ve been trying to keep things together since you left and it’s been a nightmare. Mom barely functions. Dad works and then zones out in front of the TV. Aninsley is struggling and no one helps her. The CPS lady was here and honestly she should have come years ago, but mom is acting like you somehow orchestrated this.”

“I didn’t call CPS,” I said carefully.

“Mom called them herself trying to get me in trouble. But when they investigated, they found real problems. That’s not my fault, Jordan. That’s on mom and dad for not knowing how to parent without me covering for them.” He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.

“I know. Riley knows. We’re not stupid. We’ve been watching this dysfunction our whole lives. You leaving just made it impossible to ignore anymore and we’re done. Riley and I are moving into an apartment together next month. We’ve already signed the lease. We can’t do this anymore.” The relief in his voice was palpable, mixed with guilt and exhaustion.

My 19-year-old brother sounding like he’d aged a decade in 2 weeks. “I’m sorry you got stuck with this,” I said, meaning it.

“But you’re making the right choice. You can’t sacrifice your life to parent your parents. They have to figure it out themselves.” We talked for 20 more minutes—me and the twin I’d helped raise, who I’d taught to ride a bike and helped with math homework and coached through breakups.

He told me about the apartment, his plans, his fear of leaving Aninsley behind. I told him Aninsley would be okay, that CPS was monitoring the situation, that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone you love is let the system work.

The next day, Lily and I met with Michael Reeves at his office in downtown Portland. He was older than I’d expected, maybe late 50s, with gray hair and the kind of calm professionalism that probably cost clients a lot of money.

We sat in his conference room and reviewed everything: the texts, the voicemails, the social media attacks, the CPS report, the fake emergency, the harassment campaign. Michael took detailed notes, occasionally asking questions.

When we finished, he sat back and folded his hands. “This is one of the clearest cases of parental exploitation and subsequent retaliation I’ve encountered,” he said.

“You have extensive documentation. Dr. Griffiths’s assessment provides expert validation. The CPS investigation corroborates your account. If your parents attempt any legal action against you—which they won’t because they’d lose immediately—we can shut it down instantly.” “Can they actually sue me for anything?” I asked, because at this point I didn’t know what was possible.

Michael shook his head. “They could file a frivolous lawsuit. Sure, anyone can sue anyone, but they have no standing. You have no legal obligation to provide child care for siblings. The concept doesn’t exist in law. If anything, you’d have stronger grounds to sue them: 18 years of unpaid labor, lost educational opportunities, emotional damages.”

“I don’t recommend that route because family litigation is expensive and traumatic, but you’d have a viable case.” He slid a document across the table.

“This is the cease and desist letter. If you authorize it, I’ll have it delivered tomorrow.” The letter was formal and unambiguous.

My parents were to cease all direct contact with me or Lily. Stop recruiting third parties to contact or harass us.

Stop making false statements about us to family members or on social media. And cease all attempts to hold me responsible for child care or financial support of my siblings.

Failure to comply would result in legal action, including restraining orders and potential defamation suits. It was harsh. It felt necessary.

Lily and I signed the authorization. Michael promised to handle delivery and follow-up.

“Fair warning,” he said as we left.

“People like your parents tend to either back down completely or escalate dramatically when served legal papers. There’s rarely middle ground. Be prepared for either response.”

The Collapse of Dysfunction and the Cost of Freedom

The cease and desist letter was delivered on September 14th at 2:47 p.m. According to the courier’s tracking, my mother called 17 minutes later.

I didn’t answer. She left a voicemail that was 4 minutes of hysteria: screaming, crying, accusations so garbled I could only catch fragments.

“Ungrateful… lawyer… destroying the family… never forgive.” My father called next.

When I answered, his voice was cold and distant. “So this is what we’ve come to—you’re threatening us with lawyers because we asked for help with your own family.”

The reframing was masterful. Demanding I cancel my honeymoon had become asking for help.

And 18 years of exploitation had vanished entirely from the narrative. “Dad, you didn’t ask for help. You demanded I cancel my honeymoon to babysit teenagers. When I said no, mom faked a medical emergency severity, weaponized my siblings against me, recruited extended family to harass us, and then accidentally got CPS called on herself. That’s not asking for help. That’s abuse.”

Long silence. “Then if that’s your perspective, I don’t think we have anything more to discuss.”

He hung up. That was the last direct contact I had with either parent.

The flying monkeys persisted for a few more weeks, but Michael sent cease and desist letters to the most aggressive ones and the messages gradually stopped. My parents had apparently decided that complete estrangement was preferable to accountability or change.

The CPS case continued for 4 months. Troy Vandermir updated me periodically.

My parents had completed one parenting assessment. Both scored poorly on measures of emotional availability, child engagement, and understanding of developmental needs.

They attended three sessions of mandatory family counseling, then stopped showing up, claiming the therapist was biased and didn’t understand their family. The house conditions had improved marginally, mostly because Jordan and Riley had been doing cleaning and cooking before they moved out.

Aninsley was back in school consistently, but her grades had dropped and she’d told her school counselor she felt emotionally neglected at home. “The issue is that your parents are barely meeting minimum standards,” Troy explained in one call.

“They’re not abusive in ways that would justify immediate removal, but they are profoundly inadequate parents. Your sister essentially parents herself—gets herself to school, makes her own meals, manages her own schedule. Your parents provide a house and financial support, but almost no emotional engagement or practical guidance.” He sounded frustrated.

“Unfortunately, inadequate parenting isn’t usually grounds for removal unless it causes demonstrable harm, but we’re monitoring closely, especially now that the twins have moved out and your sister has lost her buffer.” In December, 3 months after we’d returned from Scotland, Jordan called me with news.

“Mackenzie is moving out,” he said.

“She found a job at a hospital in Seattle and she’s transferring to finish her nursing degree up there. She’s leaving in January.” My first thought was relief that Mackenzie was getting out, followed immediately by worry about Aninsley.

“What about Aninsley?” I asked.