I’ve become a prisoner of someone else’s marriage: my parents demand my help, while my own family crumbles before my eyes.
Sometimes it’s better to walk away in time than to spend years tormenting each other and destroying the lives of those around you. But my parents chose a different path—clinging to their marriage for the sake of “appearances” and “the children,” even though those children are now nearly thirty. And the result? They’re not only dragging each other down but have even pulled me, their grown daughter, into their endless family nightmare.
Since childhood, I’ve watched their fights. At first, they were small—over dishes, the telly, undercooked roast. Then came shouting, accusations, slamming doors. They’d make up as if nothing happened, but the resentment always lingered. It went in circles—like a worn-out soap opera where I wasn’t even the lead, yet somehow, I was always on stage.
When I got older, they turned me into their messenger. “Tell your father to lay off the drink,” “Tell your mother to stop screaming at me.” I was the buffer, the shield, the shoulder to cry on. Both dumped their anger onto me until I felt completely drained. It was as if I was the only one keeping their marriage from falling apart.
I dreamed of leaving—and I did. I went to university in another city. Not for the degree, no. I just wanted peace, freedom, space without constant bickering. Coming home was never a comfort because home wasn’t a home—just a stage for endless blame. Mum claimed I was as selfish as Dad. Dad said I was as dramatic as Mum. All I wanted was to live my own life.
Eventually, I built my own family—married, had a child. A fresh start, you’d think. But my parents clung to their miserable union, trapped by habit. And I was still stuck between them—only now, with a buggy in one hand and the phone pressed to my ear, listening to my mother’s tears.
“Come over! Your mum’s thrown another fit!” Dad shouts.
“Your father’s gone back to the bottle—he won’t get off the sofa, do something!” Mum hisses.
If I don’t rush over, it’s guilt trips: “You’ve forgotten us! You’re our daughter! How could you?”
Meanwhile, at home, my husband looks at me wearily. He’s pulling away, saying he feels like a stranger in his own house. That I’m never really present. That he can’t be happy like this. And I know I’m losing him—losing the life I worked so hard to build. Because constantly running to my parents isn’t normal. It’s a slow collapse.
I tried talking to them:
“Just split up already! You’re not living—you’re suffering! This isn’t a marriage!”
But all I got was fear and excuses:
“Divide the house? Don’t be ridiculous! Who wants that at our age?”
“The neighbours will laugh! Divorcing now would be humiliating!”
Yet complaining to me isn’t humiliating. Using my life as free therapy isn’t shameful. Mum demands comfort. Dad demands sympathy. And there’s nowhere left for *me* to escape.
I’m tired of being the bridge they trample just to stay afloat. I’m thirty-two. A grown woman with a husband, a son, and a right to my own happiness. But they won’t let me live. They use me as an excuse to maintain their hollow marriage.
I don’t know what to do. If I step back, I’m the heartless daughter. If I stay, I lose my husband. And worst of all—I might turn into my mother: bitter, resentful, clinging to a broken marriage out of fear of being alone.
Maybe someone knows—how do I break free without burning everything down? I need real advice. Before it’s too late.
**Sometimes the hardest boundaries to set are the ones that protect us from the people we love—but without them, we risk losing ourselves, and those who truly need us, in the process.**
