Picture in your mind a beautiful house, a Victorian, a Colonial, what have you. What if it was falling apart? What if you complained to the head of the household that you wanted to fix it (repaint the exterior, fix the medicine cabinet, mend relationships with the neighbors) but he/she responded by calling you a traitor to the home, to the family. You were betraying the home, you were told, by wanting to fix the problems you observed. Fixing the cracking paint, the lacking meds and the deceitful relationships within the neighborhood meant you'd be turning your back on the ways of the house, the history that made it so great at one point. You contend that you merely want to improve the house, to bring it back to the luster and grandeur it once exuded so brilliantly.
Sympathetic to the enemies of the household
"But why?," you shout. "I only want to fix the house!"
"Because. By wanting to fix the house, you're acknowledging that it needs fixing and that'll only give the Jones's something else to make fun of us for. They're jealous of our house and how big it is and how many things we have and if we admit it's not so great, they'll call us liars and hypocrites. We need to save face!"
"Do you think the house will always look and run this well? Honestly?"
"Of course not, but I'm hoping and praying it will while I'm still alive."