I long kept silent about this. Not out of shame, but fear of judgment. After all, how could one—cut ties with their own parents, stop speaking to them as if they were strangers? Yet I made the choice. Because the pain had faded. And because only by ending it did I truly begin to live.
My name is Emily. I was born in Manchester. My family seemed ordinary enough: Mum, Dad, and me. My childhood… it was not a happy one. Not because we went hungry or suffered beatings—we had food, school, toys. But a child’s heart can starve in other ways.
It began when Father took to drink. At first, just on holidays. Then weekends. Soon, any hard day was excuse enough. Bottle after bottle. Every evening became a battleground. He might lie in the hallway, barely breathing, while Mum stepped over him, whispering to me, “Don’t fuss. Go to your room.” She never held me. Never asked how I was. Never promised it would be alright. She just survived beside him—and pulled me into that fight.
I learned early: asking for love was pointless. I dabbed my own scrapes with antiseptic, walked myself to the clinic, dealt with school troubles alone. When I won my first ribbon, no one came to see it. On my last day of school, I invited Father. He promised. But he never came. “Work,” he said. I stood in the yard watching other fathers film their daughters, handing them flowers. Mine didn’t even remember the day mattered.
After that, I stopped inviting them. Not to university graduation. Not to my wedding. Not even to my first exhibition, when I finally earned something from my art.
The deepest cut came later. When I brought home my first proper boyfriend, Father, half-drunk, picked a fight. “He’s not good enough,” he sneered. Crude. Humiliating him—and me. That’s when I knew: to him, I wasn’t a person. I was nothing. Not even a daughter. Just an obstacle to his next drink.
I left. Rented a tiny room on the outskirts. Money was tight. Sometimes, even food was scarce. But the air was lighter than at home. Silence without shouting. Loneliness without blame. Freedom without fear.
But life isn’t a straight path. Divorce. The pandemic. No work. I had to go back—to that house, that hell, unchanged. Mother’s weary face. Father flouting lockdown, stumbling in from pubs, collapsing on the floor. One day, I shoved him. Just once. I couldn’t bear it anymore. He lashed out. Mother screamed. Years of fury spilled out as if I were to blame—for living, for returning, for daring to be unhappy beside their “sacrifices.”
When I packed my bags again, I swore: never again.
Now I have a new family. A husband. A job. We live in Birmingham, in a small, warm flat. I don’t ask much. Just peace, respect, and kindness—things I never knew as a child. Now I make them for myself.
My parents call. Sometimes. Once a month, maybe. The talks last half a minute. Empty words: “You alright?” “We’re fine.” “Right, then.” And you know… I feel no guilt. 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 so long, I didn’t realise how heavy it was until I let go. I don’t owe them my happiness. Don’t owe love to those who never loved me. Don’t owe forgiveness.
If you’re reading this—if you know this ache—you’re not alone. You don’t have to endure it. Sometimes cutting loose isn’t cruelty. It’s mercy. To yourself.
I stopped speaking to my parents. And for the first time, I began to breathe.
