I’ve kept quiet about this for ages. Not out of shame, mind you, but dread of the judgement. Cutting ties with your own parents? Pretending they’re strangers? Bit dramatic, isn’t it? But here’s the thing—I finally did it. And for the first time, I’m breathing easy. Turns out, you don’t realise how heavy a weight is until you drop it.
My name’s Emily. Born and raised in Manchester. On paper, my family was perfectly ordinary—mum, dad, me. Childhood? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t all pocket money and ice cream vans. Not that we went hungry or got knocked about—we had a fridge, school, toys. But a kid’s heart can starve too.
It started when Dad discovered the bottom of a pint glass. First, just at Christmas. Then weekends. Then, well… any day ending in “y.” Bottle after bottle. Every evening became a battleground. Dad might be sprawled in the hallway, barely conscious, while Mum stepped over him, hissing, “Don’t fuss. Go to your room.” No hugs, no “How was your day?”, no “It’ll be alright.” She was treading water beside him—and dragged me under too.
I learned early: begging for affection was pointless. I patched my own scraped knees, dragged myself to the GP, sorted my own school dramas. When I won my first spelling bee? No one showed. At prom, I asked Dad to come. He promised. Didn’t turn up. “Work,” he said. So I stood in the car park, watching other dads film their daughters in floaty dresses, handing over roses. Mine couldn’t even remember the date.
After that, I stopped inviting them. Not to uni graduation. Not to my registry office wedding. Not even to my first art show when I finally started selling my paintings.
But the gut punch came later. Brought my first boyfriend home, Dad was three sheets to the wind and started a row. “He’s not good enough for you,” slurred with a side of humiliation—for both of us. That’s when it hit: to him, I wasn’t a person. Just an inconvenience between pints.
I left. Rented a shoebox flat on the outskirts. Skint half the time—sometimes too skint for groceries. But the air was lighter. Quiet without shouting. Lonely, but without the guilt. Free, without the fear.
Life’s not a straight road, though. Divorce, pandemic, job hunting. Ended up back in that house, that same nightmare. Mum’s permanent exhaustion. Dad “forgetting” lockdown existed, lurching between pubs before face-planting on the carpet. One day, I snapped—shoved him. Not proud of it. He erupted. Mum screamed. Years of bottled-up blame came out like I’d caused every problem just by existing.
Packed my bags again. Swore I’d never go back.
Now? New family. Husband. Steady job. We’ve got a cosy little flat in Leeds. I don’t ask for much—just peace, respect, and a bit of warmth. None of which I got as a kid. Now I build it myself.
They still call. Once a month, maybe. Conversation lasts 30 seconds max. “You alright?” “Still alive.” “Right, bye.” And honestly? No guilt. No longing. No desire to revisit that circus.
This isn’t about spite. It’s survival. Carried that weight so long, I forgot what standing straight felt like. I don’t owe them daughterly devotion at the cost of my sanity. Don’t owe love to those who gave none. Don’t owe endless forgiveness.
If you’re reading this and nodding along—you’re not alone. You don’t have to endure. Sometimes cutting ties isn’t cruelty. It’s self-preservation.
I stopped speaking to my parents. And finally started living.
