I’m thinking of a man I worked with. He’d landed a job he loved, with better pay and hours that would give him more time with his family. He was delighted. What worried him was telling his father.

What his father might hear

His father had spent his working life in tough conditions. He’d come home exhausted, his back aching. At home, every expense counted. Years later, when his son rang, his father still often talked about what was going wrong at work.

I could easily have pictured this father feeling proud of his son. After all, he’d told his son how hard he’d worked to give him an easier life. I chose to ask the man what he feared his father might hear if he told him how much he liked the new job. His answer stayed with me. He was afraid his father would hear him saying that his life, the son’s life, was better than his own.

You begin to see how much that phone call asked of him. Taking the opportunity meant honouring what his father had done for him. Telling him how much he enjoyed it felt like setting their two lives side by side and ranking them. Both impulses came from how much he cared about his father. That was precisely what made the choice so hard.

What are we staying loyal to when we hold back our joy?

The term invisible loyalties comes from contextual therapy, an approach developed by Ivan Boszormenyi-Nagy. Together with Geraldine M. Spark, he explored what family members feel they owe one another across generations. Who cared for whom? Whose efforts have been acknowledged? Whose are still waiting to be seen? These questions of fairness find their way into acts as ordinary as a phone call.

This is where my own systemic practice meets that way of thinking. If the son mainly talks about what’s going badly, his father will have few chances to share in what makes him happy. In turn, the son will have few chances to find out how his father responds to good news. In trying to spare someone we love, we can come to know the response we dread better than the one they would actually give.

Sometimes the fear grows out of something quite specific. The last time we mentioned a plan, someone scoffed, or reminded us what it had cost to put us through university. It matters what actually happened on those earlier occasions. The conversation I’d suggest to someone who anticipates a hurt would be different from the one I’d suggest to someone who gets hurt every time they visit.

When gratitude becomes a debt with no end in sight

“After everything we’ve done for you…” Sometimes the sentence just hangs there. Even as an adult, the child usually knows which sacrifices their parents mean. What they don’t know is how they’ll ever tell when they’ve given enough back. Should they ring more often? Give up the idea of moving away? Choose the career their parents had in mind?

Think of a father who paid for years of study and quietly hopes his child will call often. He remembers the money he gave. His child, who lives far away, thinks of the evenings spent helping him sort out paperwork. Each might sincerely believe they’re the only one making an effort. Talking about what they give and what they hope for would at least let them know what the conversation is really about.

In Ces loyautés qui nous libèrent, Catherine Ducommun-Nagy reminds us how much strength these bonds can give us. In Ces trahisons qui nous libèrent, Nicole Prieur considers the price we sometimes pay for allowing ourselves a different choice. There’s room for both questions in the same conversation. I can acknowledge what you’ve given me and still want to decide where I’ll live. A child chooses neither to be born nor the sacrifices their parents make for them.

When a few words make you question your place in the family

A woman once told me about something that happened at a family gathering. She’d been born about ten years after her brothers. In the meantime, their parents’ finances had improved. They could afford to pay for the education they’d been unable to offer their older children. Their daughter became a lawyer at a large firm.

That day, one of her brothers remarked on how middle-class she sounded these days. He might have told the story differently. What she heard, though, went well beyond her choice of words. Do I still belong here with you?

Sociology adds another dimension to that exchange. Drawing on 39 life-history interviews in the UK with people who had experienced upward social mobility, Sam Friedman (2016) describes the distance some felt between the world they grew up in and the one they’d come to inhabit. He uses the term habitus clivé, or divided habitus, to describe that experience. You can learn to speak with assurance at a law firm and then, at the family table, suddenly hear an accent, a word or a turn of phrase in your own voice. The interviews shed light on how different these journeys can be. What this particular brother meant remains an open question.

Making room for his father in the good news

Let’s return to the man with the new job. The more I thought about his new hours, the more one detail struck me. His father had worked hard so his son would have more choices. And one thing the son was glad to have a choice about was spending more time with his own family. Their working hours would look very different. Each, in his own way, was trying to look after his family.

If he’d wanted to, the son could have drawn on that detail to find his words. I can imagine something quite simple. “Dad, I got the job. I’ll be able to get home earlier, and I’m really pleased about that. I think of all those evenings you came home with your back hurting. You’re a big part of why I have this choice today.” We can’t say what his father would have answered. This time, he’d have had the chance to tell him.

The next time you catch yourself playing down good news, you might pause just before the “yes, but”. What were you about to tell the person you love? And what would you like them to know about their part in the story?

I explore both of these situations in my video (in French).