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 torturing each other and ruining 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 nearly thirty. And the result? They’re not just dragging each other down—they’ve pulled me, their grown daughter, into their never-ending family hell.
Since childhood, I’ve watched their fights. At first, they were small—over dirty dishes, the telly, or undercooked roast. Then it escalated into shouting, accusations, slamming doors. They’d make up like nothing happened, but the bitterness always lingered. And it all went in circles—like some worn-out soap opera where I wasn’t the lead, yet somehow always on stage.
When I grew older, they turned me into their go-between. “Tell your dad to stop drinking.” “Tell your mum to stop shouting.” I was their buffer, their shield, their shoulder to cry on. Each dumped their frustrations on me until I felt completely drained. It was as if I was the only one holding their marriage together, even though I never asked for it.
I dreamt of leaving—and I did. I went to university in another city. Not for the degree, no. Just for some peace, freedom, a place without constant nagging. Coming home was the last thing I wanted. It wasn’t a home, just a stage for endless blame. Mum said I was as weak-willed as Dad. Dad said I was as dramatic as Mum. And all I wanted was to live my own life.
Eventually, I built my own family. I married, had a child. A fresh start, you’d think. But my parents stayed locked in their miserable routine. Instead of divorcing, they clung to habit. And I was still stuck between them—now juggling a pushchair in one hand and Mum’s tearful phone calls in the other.
“Come over! Your mother’s kicked off again!” Dad shouts.
“Your father’s drinking himself into a stupor—do something!” Mum hisses.
And if I don’t rush over, it’s all guilt: “You’ve forgotten us! You’re our daughter—how can you be so selfish?”
Meanwhile, at home, my husband looks exhausted. He’s withdrawn lately, saying he feels like a stranger in his own marriage. That I’m never really *there.* That he can’t be happy like this. And I know I’m losing him—losing what I’ve worked so hard to build. Because these constant emergencies, these late-night whispers in the hallway—this isn’t normal. It’s a wreck.
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 daft! Who wants that at our age?”
“The neighbours will laugh! Divorcing now would be a disgrace!”
Yet shaming me isn’t a disgrace. Using my life as free therapy isn’t shameful. Mum demands support. Dad demands sympathy. And I’ve got nowhere left to hide.
I’m tired of being the bridge they trample just to avoid falling apart. I’m 32. I’m a grown woman with a husband, a son, and a right to my own happiness. But they won’t let me live. My parents use me as the excuse to keep their hollow marriage going.
I don’t know what to do. If I pull away, I’m the heartless daughter. If I stay, I lose my husband. And worst of all—I’ll turn into my mother: bitter, resentful, clinging to a dead marriage out of fear of being alone.
Has anyone found a way out of this mess without burning every bridge? I could really use the advice. Before it’s too late.
