src: istockphotoJon and Francine had their first kid late last year—a squirming, screaming milestone. Francine, new to the motherhood game, has been drowning. No time for herself, no balance, just diapers and exhaustion. Her friends miss her, nagging her to ditch the baby for a night. “Leave her with Jon,” they say. “He’s gotta step up sometime.”
Jon’s terrified. He’s helped, sure, but never solo. Never just him and the kid. Still, he wants to look like the good dad, the solid husband, so he fakes it. “Go, love,” he says, chest puffed. “I got this.”
Two hours later, Francine’s done. She needs to see her baby. The front door creaks open. Jon’s sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, scrolling videos on his phone.
“Hey, babe, everything okay? She asleep?” Francine asks, her voice turning into a whisper.
Jon’s eyes flick up meeting hers. “Of course, love. Told you I got this. She’s out cold in her crib.”
A prickle stabs behind Francine’s left ear. Something’s off—his tone’s too smooth. “Jon, what’s this dent in the wall? Why’s the booster seat on the floor? Did you drop her? Oh my God!”
“What?” Jon snaps, voice booming. “Didn’t you hear me? She’s asleep. Everything’s fine, babe. Don’t trip.”
Francine’s frown cuts deeper. “My baby monitor app says she was screaming forty minutes ago. You dropped her, Jon. You’re lying!”
“Wait, love, hold up—I didn’t drop her, okay? She wiggled, slipped a little, that’s it.”
“Jon, I’m about to lose it. Tell me the truth. Is she okay?”
“Yes, Francine, she’s fine.”
She storms to the bedroom. There’s her perfect baby, except for the ugly bruise on her left cheek. Francine’s blood boils, there's actual heat surging through her veins.
“Jon, she’s hurt! Her cheek’s bruised!”
“I knew I shouldn’t have left her with you…”
“Francine, you’re overreacting,” Jon says, casual as hell. “It’s barely a mark. Slap some makeup on her, she’s fine. Tough little cookie.”
Francine clenches every muscle to stop herself from exploding like some anime villain. “Jon, you’re gaslighting me. You dropped our kid and act like it’s nothing!”
“Babe,” he says, cool and smug, “I wanted you to have fun, okay? And everything’s fine. Look- she’s asleep. Success. You’re the one gaslighting me, making me out to be a shitty dad.”
“Jon, I’m gonna lose my mind…”
“Francine, c’mon, give me some credit. You screw up too. Left her bottles all soapy, not even ready for me.”
“Oh my God, Jon—did you feed her from a soapy bottle too?”
Jon turns, staring into a mirror like he’s checking if he’s still human. “It’s fine, babe. I won’t rag on you for the bottles. I’ll be the grown-up here.”
Francine’s face flushes red-hot, the room turning into an oven. Before she can scream, the baby wakes crying loudly, cutting through the room.
“We’ll finish this later..."
What’s This About?
Last night, my wife and I were talking gaslighting. Most folks don’t know the term, but they’ve felt its sting—someone twisting reality until you question your own damn eyes.
It’s so common, you’d be a fool not to spot it. Learn to see it, call it out, shove it back in their face. In Jon and Francine’s mess, it’s blatant. Might even sound like people you know. But here’s the gut punch you need: governments pull this same shit, just on a bigger stage.
If I had to break it down:
“Everything’s okay.”
“Well, something happened, but it’s okay.”
“Okay, it looks bad, but it’s still okay.”
“Fine, it’s bad, but blame the other guy.”
Always shifting, dodging, deflecting. Never owning it. Never learning. Take any scandal—pick one, doesn’t matter—and watch this play out. Jon and Francine’s little drama is your cheat sheet. They call it “4D chess,” but it’s just deceit with extra steps. Learn the moves. Reject their frame, their story, their steaming pile of bullshit.
Am I writing this in anger? Maybe. Or maybe it's just outright indignation.
MenO
