The wine glasses catch the light just right while someone’s phone buzzes against the tablecloth. You’re halfway through your second helping when your adult daughter leans back, surveys the spread you spent three days preparing, and says with a warm smile: “You really outdid yourself with the traditional recipes this year. It’s so nostalgic.”
The compliment lands soft but somehow off-center. Like a photo where everyone’s smiling but the focus is slightly wrong.
I’ve been watching this pattern unfold at holiday tables for years now, this specific language adult children use when they’ve already mentally filed their parents into a different category. Not rejected. Not dismissed.
Just… recast. Like when a TV show demotes a main character to recurring guest star but everyone pretends nothing changed.
The shift happens gradually, then all at once. One day you’re the person they call for real advice. The next, you’re the keeper of quaint traditions they appreciate from a safe emotional distance.
Having spent years in brand work where we tracked every micro-signal of perception shift, I recognize this recasting immediately. The language gives it away every time.
1) “You really went all out with the decorations”
This one hits different when paired with that particular tone. You know the one. Part admiration, part anthropological observation.
They’re not wrong. You did go all out. But notice what they’re actually saying: your effort is notable because it’s excessive. Charming, maybe. Sweet, definitely. But excessive in the way that hobbies of retired people seem excessive to those still in the thick of real life.
When I was 25, I said this exact thing to my mother about her Halloween setup. I meant it kindly. I also meant that her priorities had become foreign to me, that her investment in seasonal decorating was something I observed rather than understood.
The supporting character doesn’t need reasonable motivations. They just need to show up and provide atmosphere.
2) “It’s so nice that you still do this”
Still. That word carries so much weight.
Still implies surprise that you haven’t evolved past this. Still suggests that while everyone else has moved forward, you’re here maintaining traditions that matter mostly to you.
They’ll follow this up quickly with how much they appreciate it, how glad they are you keep these traditions alive. But they’ve already marked it as your thing, not our thing. You’re the museum curator of family customs they visit once a year.
3) “You must have spent forever on this meal”
Translation: I cannot fathom investing this much time in something so temporary.
They’re acknowledging effort while simultaneously distancing themselves from anyone who would make that same choice. It’s appreciation wrapped in subtle judgment about your time allocation.
The main character’s time is valuable, stretched, important. The supporting character has endless hours to devote to elaborate preparations that the real protagonists briefly enjoy before returning to their actual lives.
4) “Dad would be/Mom would be so proud of how you’ve kept everything exactly the same”
This one’s particularly sharp if you’ve lost a spouse or divorced. But even without that context, it’s telling.
They’re complimenting your role as keeper of the archive. You’re doing a wonderful job maintaining the museum of their childhood. Nothing has evolved because evolution would require you to be a full person with your own character arc.
Supporting characters don’t grow. They provide stability and continuity for the real story happening elsewhere.
5) “You always make everyone feel so welcome”
Sounds lovely, right? Except when it’s said in that tone that suggests this is your primary function. You’re the set dresser for their annual performance of family togetherness.
After years of tracking how people talk about brands versus how they talk to them, I know this distance when I hear it.
They’re describing you like a venue, not addressing you like a person.
6) “Your stories about the old neighborhood never get old”
Except they absolutely do, which is why this comment exists.
They’re being kind about your repetition, patient with your need to revisit the same narratives. Like when TV shows give the recurring character their one signature story that defines their whole personality.
You’ve become the family historian, charming but fundamentally stuck in a loop while everyone else’s story continues forward.
7) “It’s sweet how excited you get about having everyone together”
Sweet. There’s that word that sounds like a compliment but functions as a dismissal.
Your excitement is notable because it seems outsized to them. Of course you’re excited. This gathering is your main event, while for them it’s a pleasant obligation squeezed between actual life.
The supporting character’s emotional peaks happen during the main character’s intermissions.
8) “You’re so good at remembering everyone’s favorite dishes”
Because what else would you have to think about?
This compliment positions you as the family’s service provider, excellent at your job of anticipating and meeting needs. It’s praise for function, not connection.
I learned early that unspoken rules govern every interaction, and this one’s clear: you’ve been assigned the role of memory keeper and comfort provider. Your own preferences? Not part of the story anymore.
9) “This must be the highlight of your year”
And there it is. The assumption that your life is so empty, so devoid of real meaning, that this brief visit represents your emotional peak.
They can’t imagine you have other highlights. Other connections. Other sources of joy that don’t revolve around your role as their supporting character.
It’s meant kindly. They think they’re acknowledging how much you value family time. But what they’re really saying is they’ve already decided what your life contains and what it lacks.
Final thoughts
Here’s what makes this recasting so particularly cruel: it usually happens right when parents have finally figured out who they are outside their role as primary caregivers. You’ve developed interests, friendships, maybe even adventures that have nothing to do with your kids.
But they can’t see it. Won’t see it. Because recognizing your full humanity would require them to engage with you as a peer, and that’s terrifying. It’s easier to keep you in the role they understand.
The language patterns don’t lie. Each seemingly sweet comment reinforces the new dynamic where your main purpose is to provide familiar comfort while requiring minimal emotional investment in return.
You can’t force anyone to see you as three-dimensional. But you can recognize the recasting when it happens. You can choose whether to play the role they’ve written for you or politely decline to show up for scenes that require you to shrink.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for everyone, including yourself, is refuse to be anyone’s supporting character. Even theirs.
