“I’m Not Your Friend, Sir.” A Memoir of Clarity, Co-Parenting, and Closure

DARLING NIKKI
Aug 7
3 min read

Let’s get one thing straight: I was never in love with PJ after the breakup.

We dated for about sec during senior year in hight school and going into college. It ended. I didn’t chase. I didn’t crumble. We had a child under scandalous circumstances and then I moved the hell on. And for years — literal years — he was a non-factor. No calls. No birthday cards. No child support. Just silence. And for the most part, I was fine with that. I grieved the fairytale. I raised our daughter. I didn’t need him, and I damn sure didn’t beg him to show up.

But eventually, I gave him a grace-filled nudge. Again. Not for me—but for the sake of our daughter. I prompted a connection, hoping maybe he’d rise to the occasion. Maybe he’d want to be present. Maybe he’d surprise us.

He didn’t.

He showed up just enough to snap a picture, post her online like some curated accessory, and then disappear again. You know the type—those “#GirlDad” Instagram daddies who play father of the year in pixels, but in reality? Crickets. Ghost. Irrelevant.

Then came the audacity.

A few decades later, this man found himself in emotional shambles after learning his wife had cheated on him. And who did he call crying? Me. ME. Not his therapist. Not a friend. Not a frat brother. Not a pastor. But me—the woman he abandoned, the woman he left to parent alone, the woman who owed him nothing.

I was being asked to show up emotionally for a man who couldn’t even show up for the child we created together. And when I didn’t coddle him, he had the nerve to act shocked. He said—and I quote—

“I just thought that since you’re the mother of my child, you’d always have that love for me.”

Sir. WHAT?

That’s not love. That’s delusion. That’s ego. That’s patriarchy whispering in your ear that the women you abandon will keep the light on for you like we’re some damn Motel 6.

This isn’t just my story, though.

This is what happens to women—especially Black women—all the time. We become emotional rehabilitation centers for men who’ve abandoned us, hurt us, ghosted us, disrespected us… and then remember us the minute they’re down bad.

And you know what?

I’m not God, a therapist, or a trash woman—I don’t recycle people who treated me like I was disposable.

The only thing I owe him is the truth.

Not softness. Not space. Not a seat at my table.

Because here’s the part people don’t want to talk about:

🌀 Emotional labor is real.

🌀 Women are conditioned to give it for free.

🌀 Black women are expected to do it while smiling.

According to studies by the American Sociological Review, women take on the majority of emotional labor in both personal and professional relationships, with little to no reciprocity. We carry the burden of listening, soothing, and validating—even when we’re the ones still bleeding.

Let me be very clear:

I am not your emotional support animal.

I am not your unpaid therapist.

I am not your redemption arc.

I am not your friend.

And the “love” I have is reserved—for me, for my children, for the people who’ve actually earned it with effort, with accountability, with consistency.

What I gave you? Was grace. And even that was probably too generous.

This isn’t about bitterness. This isn’t about heartbreak. I’m not angry because you didn’t prioritize your only child. What I am is done with the narrative that mothers must stay emotionally available to the men who abandoned them on their post.

I don’t owe you softness. I owe my self peace.

So no, you cannot come here to cry about your broken marriage when you never showed up for the family you created. You cannot assume access to my energy because I once carried your child. You cannot treat my womb like a portal and my heart like a landfill.

I gave you my silence. Then I gave you a chance.

Now I give you the door.

This story is part of a deeper conversation about boundaries, healing, and the emotional gymnastics women are done performing. I share it in full in my new podcast episode and video, where I talk about this surprise phone call, the emotional bait-and-switch, and how I handled it without losing myself.

Do you think having a child with someone means you’ll always be emotionally connected to them?