I don't think about my parents very often these days.
Sometimes I'll be reading or talking to someone and a memory will float up, and sometimes I'll be doing my own thing and then an innocent thing - the way the clothing is folded or an old item I pulled from a drawer - will bring me back for a moment. But mostly, they're a nonentity in my life.
I don't hate them. They're far away, I've had no contact with them in so long, they have no more power to hurt me. It's just not worth the energy to feel anything about them.
These were people who, for all intents and purposes, owned me for eighteen years. They hurt me horrifically, which permanently changed who I am. They ruined my chance to have normal relationships with my siblings and tried to do the same with the rest of my relatives.
And they're basically meaningless to me now.
The only odd thing is how none of this feels weird.