There is a phenomenon as old as myth itself: the fury of the wronged woman. The Greeks knew it well; the Erinyes, or Furies, primordial goddesses of vengeance, born not of love or justice, but of violated oaths and bloodlines betrayed. They pursued with unrelenting purpose those who had disturbed the sacred order – particularly men. Not because the men were always wrong, but because the wrath of the betrayed carries a moral momentum that dwarfs the facts.
Modern life is no less mythic, merely more sanitised. Today, we don’t speak of curses or vengeance spirits – we call it safeguarding. Or whistleblowing. Or a passing concern ‘flagged’ just in case. The lexicon of vengeance has evolved, but the pattern remains: when the feminine collective becomes weaponised, especially under the guise of protection, ethics, or safety –the target is rarely just the man’s actions. It is his essence. His soul.
In the case I now recount, not with bitterness, but clinical observation, a particular constellation emerged. Three women, once trusted, once loved (in a way), formed what I now privately refer to as the Triumvirate of Wrath. Their grievances, while individually justifiable, metastasised into something altogether more dangerous when they aligned. Scorn, betrayal, rejection—these are potent fuels. And when shared, they create a combustion far hotter than any individual fire could produce alone.
On their own, each grievance was containable. Regrettable. Human. But together?
Together, they formed an echo chamber of moral outrage.
Into this mix add an enabling matriarch, a woman split down the grain with unresolved loyalty and filtered memory. She wore the robes of justice, but couldn’t quite see the courtroom was now in her own family. Then perhaps the youngest sister, merely tangential, but old enough now to pick a side. She did. The pattern was complete.
There is a danger, mythologically speaking, when the feminine principle fragments. When the anima loses her integrative function, she can become possessed – by fear, by rage, by righteousness. Jung wrote of the Terrible Mother, not the nurturing one, but the devouring one. The mother who does not give life, but consumes it. In her fractured form, she appears as gossip, litigation, triangulation. She drapes her accusations in the language of protection. But her true motive is retribution, not safety.
And the man? He becomes a symbol. A cipher. He’s no longer a person to be spoken with, but a cautionary tale to be spoken about. His sins, real or perceived, are narrated endlessly, his virtues discarded as manipulations. If he defends himself, he’s controlling. If he stays silent, he’s complicit. If he thrives, he’s smug. If he stumbles, he proves their point.
This is not to say the man is faultless. Far from it. He has made errors. He has acted out of loneliness, ego, misguided duty. He has chosen silence when speech was needed, and fury when gentleness would’ve served. But his worst mistake was not betrayal, it was underestimating the gravitational pull of shared grievance.
And this is where the myth becomes dangerous: the Triumvirate is not content with distance. It needs a verdict.
And so the campaign continues—not through courts, not always, but through implication. Social subtlety. Emotional embargo. The modern Furies do not wield whips; they wield narratives. They brandish safeguarding concerns and position statements. They do not scream—they weep. And in a culture that worships victimhood as virtue, the man who maintains his strength is already suspect.
But here lies the quiet resistance: he will not bend. He will not become the caricature. He will not apologise for existing, for learning, for continuing. He will, instead, raise his sons, daughters, step-sons and step-daughters with strength and clarity. He will teach them what the world will not: that a ‘concern’ is not proof, that masculinity is not pathology, and that sometimes, to live honourably, you must first be hated.
This is the path of the father under fire. The exiled masculine. He walks it not out of self-righteousness, but necessity. For if he does not keep walking, he too will become a whisper. A caution. A ghost.
And ghosts raise no sons.
Reade Saunders 
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