I’ve become a hostage to 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 torture each other for years and ruin 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. The result? They’re not just dragging each other down—they’re pulling me, their grown daughter, into their endless family nightmare.
From childhood, I watched their fights. At first, they were small—over dirty dishes, the telly, undercooked roast. Then it turned into shouting, blame, slamming doors. They’d make up as if nothing happened, but the bitterness lingered. And it went round and round like a worn-out soap opera where I wasn’t the lead role—yet somehow always on stage.
As I got older, they made me their go-between. “Tell your dad to lay off the drink,” “Tell your mum to stop screaming.” I was the buffer, the shield, the emotional dumping ground. Each unloaded on me, leaving me drained. It felt like I was the only one keeping their marriage from collapsing.
I dreamed of escape. So I left—went to university in another city. Not for the degree, no—just for silence, freedom, a space without constant nagging. Coming home was agony. It wasn’t a home, just a stage for endless blame. Mum said I was weak-willed like Dad. Dad called me a drama queen like Mum. All I wanted was to live.
Eventually, I built my own family. Married, had a child. A fresh start, I thought. But my parents stayed locked in their misery. Instead of divorcing, they clung to habit. And I was still stuck in the middle—now with a pram in one hand and my mum’s sobs on the phone in the other.
“Come round! Your mum’s kicked off again!” Dad barks.
“Your father’s drinking himself into a stupor—do something!” Mum hisses.
If I don’t come, it’s guilt trips: “Forgotten us, have you? We’re your parents! How could you?”
Meanwhile, at home, my husband barely looks at me. He says he feels like a stranger in his own family. That I’m always somewhere else, never really *here*. That he can’t live like this. And I know I’m losing him—losing what little I’ve built. Because my constant absences and hushed hallway calls at midnight aren’t normal. They’re destruction.
I tried talking to them:
“Just split up! 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 does that at our age?”
“The neighbours would laugh! Divorcing now—what a disgrace!”
Yet burdening me isn’t a disgrace. Using my life as free therapy isn’t shameful. Mum demands comfort. Dad demands sympathy. And I’ve got nowhere left to run.
I’m tired of being the bridge they trample just to avoid falling apart. I’m 32—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 their excuse to keep pretending.
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’ll turn into my mother: bitter, trapped, clinging to a dead marriage just to avoid being alone.
Does anyone know how to escape this without burning everything down? I need answers. Before it’s too late.
