I long kept silent about this. Not out of shame, but fear of judgment. How could a daughter refuse her parents, cut ties as if they were strangers? But I did. Because it no longer hurts. And because only by ending this did I truly begin to live.
My name is Emily. I grew up in Manchester. My family seemed ordinary—mum, dad, and me. My childhood… it wasn’t happy. Not because we were beaten or starved—there was food, school, toys. But a child’s soul can starve too.
It started when my father began drinking. First, just at holidays. Then weekends. Soon, any hard day became an excuse. Bottle after bottle. Every evening turned into a battleground. He’d lie in the hallway, barely breathing, while Mum hurried past, whispering, “Don’t disturb him. Go to your room.” No hugs, no “How was your day?” No reassurance. She just survived beside him—and dragged me into it.
I learned early: asking for love was pointless. I bandaged my own scrapes, walked myself to the clinic, handled school troubles alone. When I won my first award, no one came. For my last day of school, I invited Dad. He promised. Didn’t show. “Work,” he said. I stood in the playground watching other fathers film their daughters, handing them flowers. Mine didn’t even remember.
After that, I stopped inviting them. Not to my graduation. Not to my registry office wedding. Not to my first art exhibition, when I finally made a living from my work.
But the worst came later. When I brought home my first boyfriend, Dad—already drunk—started shouting. “He’s not good enough for you,” he slurred, humiliating us both. That’s when I knew: to him, I wasn’t a person. I was nothing. Not even a daughter. Just an obstacle between him and the bottle.
I left. Rented a tiny flat on the outskirts. Money was tight—sometimes not enough for food. But the silence was bliss. No shouting. Loneliness without scorn. Freedom without fear.
Life never moves in a straight line. A divorce, the pandemic, joblessness—I had to return to that house, that hell where nothing had changed. Mum’s tired face. Dad ignoring lockdown, stumbling home to pass out on the floor. One day, I shoved him. Years of rage boiled over. He lashed out. Mum screamed like I was the villain—for existing, for coming back, for daring to be unhappy in the shadow of their “sacrifice.”
When I packed my bags again, I swore never to return.
Now I have a new family. A husband. A job. We live in a small but cosy flat in Brighton. I don’t ask much—just peace, respect, warmth. Things I never knew as a child. Now I build them myself.
My parents call. Sometimes. Once a month, maybe. The conversations last half a minute. Empty words: “You alright?” “We’re fine.” “Right, bye.” And you know… I feel no guilt. No longing. No wish to go back.
This isn’t about anger. Or revenge. It’s survival. I carried that weight so long, I barely noticed when I dropped it. I’m not obliged to be a daughter at the cost of my joy. To love those who didn’t love me. To forgive everything.
If you’re reading this and recognise yourself—you’re not alone. You don’t have to endure. Sometimes cutting ties isn’t cruelty. It’s care. For yourself.
I stopped speaking to my parents. And for the first time, I became myself.
