I long kept silent about this. Not from shame, but from fear of judgment. How could one abandon their parents, cut all ties as if they were strangers? Yet I finally dared—because the pain stopped, and only by ending this connection did I truly begin to live.
My name is Emily. I grew up in Manchester. My family seemed ordinary: mum, dad, me. Childhood… it wasn’t happy. Not because we went hungry or were beaten—we had a fridge, school, toys. But a child’s soul starved regardless.
It began when father took to drink. At first, just on holidays. Then weekends. Soon, any difficult day would do. Bottle after bottle. Every evening became a battleground. He’d sprawl in the hallway, barely breathing, while mother stepped over him, whispering, “Don’t interfere. Go to your room.” No hugs, no asking how I was. No promises it would be alright. She survived beside him—and dragged me into that war.
I learned early: begging for love was pointless. I dabbed my own scraped knees with antiseptic, walked myself to the clinic, handled school troubles alone. When I won my first award, no one came to see it. On my last day of school, I invited father. He promised. Didn’t show. “Work,” he said. I stood in the yard, watching other dads film their daughters, handing them flowers. Mine forgot the day entirely.
After that, I stopped inviting them anywhere. Not to uni graduation. Not to my registry office wedding. Not to my first art exhibition, when I finally earned something from my work.
The deepest cut came later. When I brought home my first boyfriend, father—already drunk—started a row. “He’s beneath you,” he sneered, humiliating us both. That’s when I knew: to him, I wasn’t a person. Not even a daughter. Just an obstacle to his drinking.
I moved out. Found a tiny room on the outskirts. Money was tight—sometimes not even enough for food. But it was easier to breathe 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 hell, unchanged. Mother’s tired face. Father skirting lockdown to roam with mates before collapsing on the floor. One day, I shoved him—I couldn’t take it anymore. He raged. Mother screamed. Years of fury boiled over, as if my mere existence was the crime. Living. Coming back. Daring to be unhappy near their “sacrifice.”
When I packed my bags again, I swore never to return.
Now I have a second family. A husband. A job. We live in Leeds, in a small but warm flat. I don’t ask much—just peace, respect, and kindness. Things I never knew as a child. Now I build them for myself.
They call sometimes. Once a month. The conversation lasts half a minute. Hollow words: “You alright?” “We’re alive.” “Right, bye.” And you know… I feel no guilt. No longing. No desire to go back.
This isn’t about anger. Or revenge. It’s survival. I carried that weight so long, I barely recognized the lightness when it lifted. I’m not obliged to be a daughter at the cost of my happiness. To love those who never loved me. To forgive everything.
If you’re reading this and see yourself—know 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.
