For years, I kept silent about it. Not out of shame, but fear of judgment. How could anyone turn away from their own parents, cut ties as though they were strangers? Yet here I am, finally free. Only by ending it did I realise what it meant to truly live.
My name is Emily. I grew up in Sheffield, in what seemed an ordinary family—mother, father, and me. My childhood was not a happy one. Not because we lacked food or shelter, for we had a fridge, a school, even toys. But a child’s heart can starve without love.
It began when my father took to drink. At first, only on holidays. Then weekends. Soon, any hard day became an excuse. Bottle after bottle. Evenings turned into battlegrounds. He’d sprawl in the hallway, barely conscious, while my mother hurried past, whispering, “Don’t interfere. Go to your room.” She never held me, never asked how I was, never promised things would be alright. She survived beside him—and dragged me into that war.
I learned early: begging for love was futile. I dabbed my own scrapes with antiseptic, walked alone to the clinic, handled school troubles myself. When I won my first certificate, no one came to see it. On my last day of school, I invited my father. He promised to be there—but didn’t come. “Work,” he said. I stood in the courtyard, watching other fathers film their daughters, handing them flowers. Mine forgot the day entirely.
After that, I stopped inviting them—not to my university graduation, not to my wedding, not even to my first exhibition when I finally earned a living through my art.
The worst came later. When I brought home my first proper boyfriend, my father, half-drunk, lashed out. “He’s beneath you,” he sneered, humiliating us both. In that moment, I knew: to him, I wasn’t a person. Not a daughter. Just an inconvenience.
I left. Rented a tiny flat on the city’s edge. Money was tight—sometimes too tight for food—yet the air felt lighter than at home. Silence without shouting. Loneliness without blame. Freedom without fear.
But life never runs smooth. Divorce, the pandemic, unemployment—I had to return to that house, that unchanged hell. My mother’s face forever weary. My father skirting lockdown to roam with friends, then collapsing on the floor. One day, I shoved him—just once—because I couldn’t take it anymore. He erupted. My mother screamed. Years of resentment boiled over, as if my mere existence was the crime.
When I packed my bags again, I swore never to go back.
Now, I have a second family. A husband. A job. We live in Manchester, in a small but warm flat. I ask little from life—just peace, respect, and kindness. Things I never knew as a child, but now build for myself.
My parents call. Sometimes. Once a month, perhaps. The talk lasts half a minute at most. “How are you?” “We’re alive.” “Right then, bye.” And you know—I feel no guilt. No longing. No wish to return.
This isn’t anger. Not vengeance. It’s survival. For years, I carried a weight I didn’t realise was there until I set it down. I owe no one my happiness. No one my love, if they gave none in return. No one forgiveness.
If you’re reading this and recognise yourself—know you’re not alone. You need not endure. Sometimes cutting ties isn’t cruelty, but care. For yourself.
I stopped speaking to my parents. And for the first time, I became myself.
