I’ve kept quiet about this for ages. Not because I was ashamed, but because I was scared of being judged. How could I just cut off my parents, stop talking to them like they were strangers? But I finally did it—because it doesn’t hurt anymore. And because only after ending things did I truly feel alive.
My name’s Emily. I grew up in Manchester. On paper, my family was normal—mum, dad, me. But childhood? It wasn’t happy. Not because we were beaten or went hungry—we had food, school, toys. But my heart was starving.
It started when Dad began drinking. At first, just at holidays. Then weekends. Then just because it was a “rough day.” Bottle after bottle. Every night turned into a battlefield. He’d be slumped in the hallway, barely breathing, and Mum would just step over him, whispering, “Don’t make a fuss. Go to your room.” No hugs, no asking how I was, no “It’ll be okay.” She was just surviving beside him—and dragged me into that fight.
I learned early: asking for love was pointless. I patched up my own scrapes, went to the GP alone, dealt with school disasters by myself. When I got my first award, no one came. For my school leavers’ day, I invited Dad. He promised. Didn’t show. Said he had “work.” I stood in the playground watching other dads filming their daughters, handing them flowers. Mine didn’t even remember it was a special day.
After that, I stopped inviting them. Not to uni graduation. Not to my wedding at the registry office. Not even to my first art exhibition when I finally started making money from my work.
But the worst came later. When I brought my first boyfriend home, Dad was drunk and started shouting. “He’s not good enough for you,” he slurred—humiliating him, humiliating me. That’s when I knew—to him, I wasn’t a person. I was nothing. Not even a daughter. Just someone in the way of his next drink.
I moved out. Rented a tiny flat on the outskirts. Money was tight—sometimes too tight for food. But breathing was easier. Quiet without the shouting. Lonely, but without the guilt. Free, without the fear.
Life’s never straightforward, though. Divorce, the pandemic, losing my job—I had to move back into that house, that hell where nothing had changed. Mum’s tired face. Dad breaking lockdown to stumble between pubs, then passing out on the floor. One day, I snapped—shoved him because I couldn’t take it anymore. He swore. Mum screamed. Years of anger spilled out like it was all my fault—for existing, for coming back, for daring to be unhappy next to their “sacrifices.”
When I packed my bags again, I swore: never going back.
Now, I’ve got a second family. A husband. A job. We live in Bristol in a small but cosy flat. I don’t ask for much—just peace, respect, and warmth. Things I never had as a kid. Now, I’m building them for myself.
They still call. Sometimes. Once a month, maybe. The conversations last less than a minute. Empty words: “You alright?” “We’re fine.” “Right, bye.” And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. I don’t miss them. I don’t want to go back.
This isn’t about anger. Or revenge. It’s survival. I carried that weight for so long—when I finally dropped it, I didn’t realise how light I’d feel. I don’t owe them my happiness. I don’t owe love to people who never loved me. I don’t owe forgiveness.
If you’re reading this and it sounds familiar—you’re not alone. You don’t have to put up with it. Sometimes cutting ties isn’t cruelty. It’s care. For yourself.
I stopped talking to my parents. And for the first time, I became me.
