Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are still caught in a contentious divorce dispute.
While details about the former couple are limited, sources have shared information with the media that sheds light on the disintegration of their marriage.
Among the notable voices is Krisann Morel, Jolie’s childhood nanny, who claims that the actress is vilifying Pitt and manipulating their children amid their ongoing battle.
Morel played a significant role in Jolie’s early life, reportedly forming a strong bond with Jolie’s mother, Marcheline Bertrand, who tragically passed away from cancer.
Morel gained public attention in 2010 when Andrew Morton released an unauthorized biography about Angelina Jolie. Unlike many anonymous sources in the book, Morel chose to speak on the record, providing an intimate look at Jolie’s challenging upbringing. Her narrative reveals a troubled childhood filled with painful experiences.
The turmoil began with the separation of Jolie’s parents, Marcheline Bertrand and Jon Voight, in 1976. Jolie was merely six months old when her father left the family for a young drama student, leaving a significant emotional void.
“Jon Voight was a terrible father to her at that time. He betrayed her mother, leaving Marcheline heartbroken,” Susan Margaret, a friend of Jolie’s, recounted in an interview.
“She confided in me that Jon emotionally abused her. Angelina faced many difficulties growing up due to the turmoil,” she added.
Bertrand sacrificed her own acting dreams to focus on nurturing Jolie and her older brother, James Haven Voight. During Angelina’s early years, they moved between various rented apartments in New York City.
“We weren’t poor, but there was an expectation that we had wealth because I was the child of an actor,” Angelina revealed in a 2002 interview.
However, the family’s financial difficulties were not the most challenging aspect of their lives. Morel indicated that Bertrand struggled with her feelings towards Jolie, as the young girl bore a striking resemblance to her father. This tension escalated to the point where Bertrand kept Jolie secluded in a separate apartment within their building for two years, attended to by a rotating team of caregivers.
“Angie was a very lonely and troubled child. Her mother became convinced that Jon was cheating even before she was born,” Morel shared with the Daily Mail in 2016.
This separate apartment was originally meant for Jon’s production company, but Jolie ended up living there with nannies while her mother avoided seeing her, staying three floors below. Occasionally, Bertrand would come upstairs to visit Morel, expressing her sorrow over her situation.“It broke my heart. It still upsets me. I really felt for that child,” Morel wrote in Angelina: An Unauthorized Biography.
Morel revealed that Angelina and her brother were largely raised by nannies and often found themselves caught in the middle of their mother’s struggles. According to Morel, Jolie was often weaponized against their father.
“Jon was depicted as the villain, and Marcheline successfully turned both children against him. But this led to years of pain and unresolved wounds that linger to this day,” Morel told the Daily Mail.
Following the disintegration of “Brangelina,” Morel feared that Angelina might repeat her mother’s mistakes with Pitt. She noted the disturbing parallels between Angelina’s current situation and her own difficult childhood, especially when Bertrand severed ties with Jon Voight.
Morel expressed her worries, stating, “I wish I could tell her, ‘Please don’t alienate Brad from the children’s lives. Don’t use them as weapons during your divorce. And don’t demonize your husband.’ Because that’s exactly what your mother did during her breakup with your father, resulting in a lonely and traumatic childhood for you. Why would you inflict that same tragedy on your kids?”
Current Situation
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have six children: three adopted (Pax, Maddox, and Zahara) and three biological (Shiloh, Vivienne, and Knox). Since their high-profile separation in 2016, the former power couple has been engaged in a complicated custody battle.
The court drama has been filled with ups and downs. Jolie initially held full custody until May 2021, when Pitt was awarded joint custody. However, this decision was overturned after Los Angeles Superior Court Judge John W. Ouderkirk, who ruled in Pitt’s favor, was removed from the case due to concerns regarding his impartiality.
Currently, Jolie has primary physical custody, while Pitt has scheduled “custodial time” with their minor children. Yet, a final resolution appears distant.
As recently as April, Jolie filed court papers in Los Angeles accusing Pitt of physical abuse—claims he has vehemently denied.
Reports indicate that one of their daughters, Vivienne, has chosen to drop “Pitt” from her last name, with her sister Shiloh also seeking a legal name change. Additionally, 19-year-old Zahara is reportedly using “Jolie” as her surname, and their eldest child, Maddox, 22, also doesn’t include “Pitt” in his name.
For Pitt, these name changes symbolize a deeper estrangement that has developed over the years. According to Little Things, this growing distance has had a profound emotional impact on him, with a source stating, “Brad was devastated by this choice.”
Further escalating the tension, his son Pax harshly criticized Pitt in a 2020 Instagram post that recently resurfaced. “You have made the lives of those closest to me a constant hell,” Pax allegedly wrote on his private account. “You may tell yourself and the world whatever you want, but the truth will come to light someday.” He concluded with, “So Happy Father’s Day, you f*****g awful human being.”
A Heartfelt Plea
Currently, Shiloh is the only child legally changing her name, but the overall sentiment seems clear: the children are aligning with their mother amid the ongoing discord between their parents.
Krisann Morel believes Angelina still grapples with abandonment issues, which manifest in her relationship with her children today.
“I don’t know Brad Pitt, but he seems like a decent person, and he resembles Jon, so this is a clear repetition of the past. Angie has no real understanding of what a normal family looks like. Brad does; he came from one,” she said in 2016.
“These kids have been through enough. Angie is attempting to sever their connection with their father just as her mother did with hers. There is so little stability for these children as they move around so much—she is threatening to take away the only stability they have.”
My Neighbors Left a Note That Shattered My Heart — My Granddaughter Discovered It and Gave Them a Learning Experience
The music I played on my piano was my last link to my late husband. But cruel neighbors shattered that joy with a hurtful message on my wall. When my granddaughter found out, she made things right, leaving those entitled neighbors scratching their heads.
“Oh, Jerry, did you love it today, darling?” I asked softly, the last notes of “Clair de Lune” filling my cozy living room as my fingers lifted from the ivory piano keys. My eyes fixed on the framed photo of my late husband, Jerry. His kind eyes seemed to twinkle back at me, just as they had for over fifty years of our marriage…
Willie, my tabby cat, stretched lazily near my feet, purring contentedly. I reached down to scratch behind his ears, feeling the familiar ache in my chest as I carefully lifted Jerry’s photo.
“I miss you so much, darling. It’s been five years, but sometimes… sometimes it feels like yesterday.”
Pressing a gentle kiss to the cool glass, I whispered, “Time for dinner, my love. I’ll play your favorite before bed, okay? ‘Moon River,’ just like always.”
As I set the frame back down, I could almost hear Jerry’s warm chuckle. “You spoil me, Bessie,” he’d say, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I shuffled towards the kitchen, pausing to look back at the piano, my constant companion these past 72 years.
“What would I do without you?” I murmured, running my hand along its polished surface.
That night, as I lay in bed, I whispered into the darkness, “Goodnight, Jerry. I’ll see you in my dreams.”
The next morning, I was lost in Chopin’s “Nocturne in E-flat major” when a sharp rap on my window startled me. My fingers stumbled, the music cutting off abruptly.
A red-faced man glared at me through the glass. He was my new neighbor.
“Hey, lady!” he shouted, his voice muffled. “Cut out that racket! You’re keeping the whole neighborhood awake with your pathetic plinking!”
I stared at him, shocked. “I… I’m so sorry,” I stammered, even as a small voice in my head protested. It was barely 11 a.m., and none of my other neighbors had ever complained before.
The man stomped away, leaving me trembling. I closed the lid of the piano, my sanctuary suddenly feeling tainted.
The next day, I closed all the windows before sitting down to play. The music felt muffled and constrained, but I hoped it would keep the peace.
I was barely ten minutes into Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” when my doorbell rang insistently. With a heavy heart, I answered it.
A woman with pinched features glared at me. “Listen here, old lady,” she spat. “The grave’s calling, and you’re still banging on that piano? Cut the noise, or I’ll report you to the HOA!”
It was only then that I understood she was my new neighbor’s wife.
I felt like I’d been slapped. “I… I closed all the windows,” I said weakly.
“Well, it’s not enough!” she snapped, turning on her heel. “Quit making noise with your stupid piano!”
I slumped against the door frame, tears welling in my eyes. “Oh, Jerry,” I whispered. “What do I do?”
I could almost hear his voice, gentle but firm. “You play, Bessie. You play your heart out. Don’t stop… for anyone.”
But as I sat at the piano, my fingers hovering over the keys, I couldn’t bring myself to press down.
Days passed, and I tried everything. I taped cardboard over the windows, played only in short bursts, even considered moving the piano to the basement where it might not be heard.
But nothing seemed to satisfy my new neighbors, the Grinches, as I’d started calling them in my head.
The thought of being separated from my cherished instrument, even by a flight of stairs, made my heart ache. This piano wasn’t just an object; it was an extension of my soul, a living connection to Jerry and our life together.
Forgetting about those bothersome neighbors for a moment, I lost myself in the music as I played the piano that night.
The next morning, I stepped outside to tend to my small herb garden. The sight that greeted me stopped me cold.
The cruel words “SHUT UP!” were spray-painted across the wall in angry red letters.
I sank to my knees and wept. “Jerry, I can’t do this anymore.”
That day, for the first time in decades, I didn’t touch my piano.
As night fell, I sat in Jerry’s armchair, clutching his photo. “I’m so sorry, my love. I just don’t have the strength to fight anymore.”
The shrill ring of the telephone startled me from my thoughts. I fumbled for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mom? It’s me,” my son Jacob’s warm voice filled the line. “How are you doing?”
I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “Oh, I’m fine, sweetie. Just a quiet day at home.”
There was a pause. “Mom, you don’t sound fine. Is everything alright?”
I sighed, debating whether to burden him with my troubles. “It’s nothing, really. Just… some issues with the new neighbors.”
“Issues? What kind of issues?”
I found myself spilling everything… the complaints, the threats, the vandalism.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, honey. I feel so… lost.”
“Oh, Mom, why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have helped.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. You have your own life, your own problems.”
“Mom, you’re never a burden. Never. Your music has brought joy to so many people over the years. Remember all those Christmas parties? The school recitals you played for? You’re not a nuisance… you’re a treasure.”
“Listen, I’m going to call Melissa. She’s closer. Maybe she can come check on you. And we’ll figure this out together, okay?” Jacob finished.
As I hung up the phone, I felt a small flicker of hope. Maybe I wasn’t alone in this after all.
Days crawled by. My piano sat untouched, gathering dust. I felt like a part of me was withering away.
One evening, a loud knock startled me from my melancholy. I opened the door to find my granddaughter Melissa standing there, her face glowing with a warm smile.
“Surprise, Nana!” she exclaimed, enveloping me in a tight hug.
As she pulled back, her eyes widened in horror. “Nana, who did this to your wall?”
I burst into tears, the whole story spilling out between sobs. Melissa’s expression darkened with each word.
Leave a Reply