I recall that evening when the shouting echoed through the entire stairwell of our block of flats. “What is wrong with you this time? How much more of this can I take? I’m sick and tired of it all!” came the woman’s voice from behind one of the doors.
At that moment, my sister Emily and I were climbing the stairs. We stopped dead in our tracks, as if we’d hit an invisible barrier. For a second, our eyes met, and in that brief exchange, no words were needed. We both understood without a sound that it was better to turn back. Letting out a simultaneous sigh, we spun around and quietly headed away from the building. Clearly, we weren’t planning to return to our flat that day.
Who would want to spend the evening listening to endless arguments between their parents? Certainly not us! We walked confidently towards the next entrance where our gran, Margaret, lived. Lately, her flat had become our real sanctuary. If before we only visited her at weekends, now we found shelter there almost every night.
The atmosphere in our parents’ home had long become unbearable. Our mum and dad, as if forgetting everything else, yelled at each other nonstop. Worst of all, they increasingly tried to drag us into their disputes.
Sometimes mum would turn sharply to Emily and demand, “Tell me, am I right? You agree with me, don’t you?”
Other times, dad would address me without waiting for an answer, “No, I’m right here! Back me up!”
Emily and I stayed silent. We didn’t want to take sides or become part of this endless conflict. We just wanted peace, calm, and warmth all the things we found at gran’s.
These scenes repeated day after day, like a broken record that no one dared to stop. We had learned to pick up on the subtle signs that a fight was about to start. From the tone of voice, the sharpness of movements, the way they glanced at each other all these became signals that it was time to leave. What child would enjoy living in constant tension, where any conversation could turn into a loud row in an instant?
We couldn’t understand what had triggered this catastrophe. Our family was never perfect, not like those in the adverts, but before, our parents knew how to sort things out! Arguments happened, of course they always do but they ended not with shouting but with calm talks. Mum might frown, dad might raise his voice a bit, but after half an hour everything was settled. We’d all sit at the table again, have tea, and discuss weekend plans.
But about two years ago, everything changed… It was as if someone had secretly swapped our old parents for new ones ones who now found reasons to argue over the most ordinary things. A dirty mug left on the table? That sparked a long lecture on carelessness and disrespect. A shirt hung on the wrong hook? It led to sarcastic comments about keeping the house tidy. A teaspoon forgotten in the sink? Almost a crime, worthy of a drawn-out investigation!
One evening, Emily sat in the kitchen at gran’s, absentmindedly stirring her tea with a spoon. She was quiet for a long time, watching the amber swirls in the cup, then suddenly asked with bitterness, “How did it come to this, gran? Everything changed after their holiday together. What happened there?”
Gran paused for a moment, set her cup on the saucer, and gently ran her hand over Emily’s arm. She only guessed at the reasons for the family breakdown, and those guesses didn’t please her at all.
“The adults will sort it out themselves,” she replied softly, trying to sound confident. “Sometimes people need time to figure out the best way to proceed.”
Emily nodded, but distrust showed in her eyes. She knew gran was hiding something, but she didn’t press the matter. What was the point? As long as they saw her as a child, they wouldn’t share anything serious.
“We can’t stand these shouts anymore!” I exclaimed with despair in my voice. “We can’t do our homework properly or read a book! I don’t even remember the last time we all sat down for a meal together. If it’s so hard for them to be together, they should just get divorced it would be easier for everyone!”
The words came out on their own, but they held the truth of the past months. I was speaking for both of us I knew my sister felt the same! There had been no peace in our home for a long time: either mum would say something sharp, or dad would reply irritably, and then the bickering would start again, with nowhere to hide…
“Matthew…” gran seemed at a loss. She put down her knitting, looked at me carefully, and slowly shook her head. “Have you thought about what will happen if they divorce? You’ll have to be split up. Are you ready to live apart from Emily?”
“We’ll live with you!” Emily said right away, looking at gran with pleading eyes. “We’re here almost all the time anyway! You don’t mind, do you?”
Gran froze. She understood our feelings she saw how hard it was for us, how tired we were of the constant parental rows. On one hand, we would indeed be safe with her in a calm, friendly environment where we could do homework without shouting, read books in silence, and just feel protected. She loved us immensely and was ready to surround us with care.
On the other hand, what about our parents? How to explain to them that we no longer wanted to live at home? Would they agree to such an arrangement? And if they did how would it affect their relationship with us? Wouldn’t this adventure end up causing a complete break in relations with our parents?
“Let’s not rush into anything,” gran said with a deep sigh. “I’m always happy to have you here, you know that. But let’s first try talking to mum and dad. Maybe together we can find a way to fix everything.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll talk to them ourselves,” Emily declared confidently, smiling happily. Gran had almost agreed, and that was the main thing! “Just don’t turn us down, please! We really can’t stay there anymore! And it would be better for them separately otherwise one day they might actually hurt each other! I saw dad raise his hand at mum yesterday… He didn’t hit her, honestly! But he was on the verge.”
Emily fell silent, remembering that awful moment. She had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water and froze in the doorway: dad was half-turned to mum, his hand suddenly shot up, and mum instinctively ducked. A second later dad lowered his arm, but that second stretched into an eternity for Emily.
“Gran, please agree!” I supported my sister. I stepped closer and took gran’s hand, as if afraid she would refuse now. “We’ll help you with everything around the house. Just don’t send us back there. They don’t pay any attention to us at all! Yesterday I went up to dad and told him there was a parents’ meeting. Do you know what he said? ‘Go to mum!’ So I did. Guess what mum said?”
“Go to dad?” gran asked quietly, already knowing the answer.
“Exactly!” I said with a bitter smile. “And then they argued for another two hours about who would go to the meeting. They sat in different rooms and shouted at each other across the hallway. And I just stood there listening.”
“And I asked them to sign a permission slip for a museum trip,” added Emily, lowering her eyes. Her fingers nervously fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “And now I’m the only one in class who won’t be going. Neither of them signed the paper. Instead, they started arguing again mum shouted that it was dad’s duty, and dad insisted that mum should handle school matters.”
Gran looked at us and saw how exhausted we were. In our eyes was a tiredness that wasn’t childlike the kind that builds up over months, when every day is like the last, when instead of family warmth there are constant arguments, instead of support there is indifference.
“It’s always like this,” I sighed, dropping my shoulders. My voice sounded weary, as if I’d repeated this hundreds of times. “Any request from us turns into a reason for a new row. We don’t even want to come home. A couple of days ago we got back at eleven at night and do you think they told us off? No! They just sent us to bed without even asking where we’d been. But then they spent ages accusing each other of bad parenting.”
My sister and I sighed in unison again. In recent months, we had seriously considered that our parents’ divorce was the only way out of this situation. But we were scared of the prospect of being separated from each other, which would inevitably follow the divorce. One of us would stay with mum, the other with dad, and our usual closeness would turn into rare weekend meetings.
We discussed options in whispers in the evenings when we were alone in our room. Once, I jokingly suggested running away from home just grab our backpacks and leave wherever our eyes took us. I said it with a smile, trying to lighten the mood, but Emily took the idea seriously. Her eyes lit up for a second, and then she quietly said, “What if we really did leave? Even for a couple of days…” At that moment, we both realized that the situation at home had become so unbearable that even the thought of running away didn’t seem so crazy anymore.
Then it hit us: gran! Why not move in with her? This thought occurred to both of us at the same time, as if we were thinking in sync. Emily was the first to voice it: “Let’s ask gran if we can live with her? She definitely won’t shout or argue. And we won’t have to listen to these endless rows…” I immediately chimed in: “Yes! She’s kind, always supports us. And her flat is big enough there’ll be room for us.”
We started imagining a new life: quiet breakfasts, the chance to do homework in peace, evenings playing board games with gran. No shouting, no accusations, no need to hide in our room to avoid catching someone in a bad mood. For the first time in a long while, hope flickered in our hearts. Let our parents sort things out between themselves, and we would finally find peace that’s what Emily and I thought as we pictured living with gran…
“Mum, dad, we need to have a serious talk,” my sister and I said firmly, standing before our parents. We had waited until evening when both were home and walked decisively into the living room. Emily held my hand tightly it made it easier for her to stay confident. “But first, promise you’ll hear us out completely before giving your opinions.”
Dad put down his phone and looked up in surprise. Mum, who was sorting things on the sofa, straightened up abruptly. Her face showed an expression as if we’d said something completely unthinkable.
“This is all your doing!” she huffed, crossing her arms. “The children are already setting conditions for us! As if we have to answer to them!”
“And who are you to talk!” dad snapped immediately, setting his phone aside. “I’m always at work, trying to provide for the family. You were with them all the time! And what did you teach them? Why are they bossing us around now?”
We exchanged glances. We expected something like this that the conversation would immediately go into the usual pattern of mutual accusations. But we couldn’t back down.
“Enough!” Emily exclaimed, almost with tears in her voice. She took a step forward, trying to speak clearly and calmly, though everything inside her was trembling. “Matthew and I have thought about it and decided that you need to get divorced.”
The room went instantly quiet. Mum froze with her mouth half-open, and dad slowly rose from the sofa.
“Well, that’s news!” mum’s voice sounded threatening. “Emily, you’re still too young to tell adults how to live! And what else have you ‘decided’? Maybe divide up the flat for us too?”
“If you don’t get divorced, we’ll go to social services,” I said, gripping my sister’s hand tightly as if drawing strength from it. My voice sounded firm, though inside I wasn’t entirely sure I meant it seriously. “And then, dad, you might lose your job. Your company doesn’t welcome scandals, right? You said yourself that reputation is everything.”
“And you, mum,” Emily continued, looking straight into mum’s eyes, “the neighbours will stop respecting you. They won’t even talk to you! Everyone knows how you shout at each other, and we’ll add the details!”
“They’re threatening us! Just look at them!” mum finally squeezed out, shifting her gaze from one of us to the other. “These are our children! How can you do this to us?”
“We’re not threatening,” I said quietly but firmly. “We just want you to understand: we can’t live like this. We’re tired! Tired of the shouting, of you not listening to us, of even simple requests turning into arguments.”
“You’ll get divorced, move apart, and we’ll live with gran,” we finished in unison, as we’d rehearsed. “It’ll be better for everyone: peace for us, no constant conflicts for you. We don’t want to be caught in the middle anymore.”
Our parents froze. For the first time in a long while, they had nothing to say. Usually in such talks they immediately started arguing, interrupting each other, looking for someone to blame but now both seemed speechless.
Their thirteen-year-old children were behaving completely unexpectedly! Emily and I stood side by side, holding hands, and looked at our parents firmly, without the usual shyness. And we were talking about such serious things that the adults had tried not to think about.
Our parents had themselves thought about divorce more than once. But they were always stopped by the same question who would the children stay with? Separating twins seemed unthinkable we were incredibly close, always did everything together, supported each other. Our parents couldn’t imagine tearing one of us away from the other, making us live in different homes, seeing each other only at weekends.
They hadn’t considered the option with gran before. For some reason, that thought had never occurred to them perhaps because both were too absorbed in their grudges and mutual complaints. But now, hearing our proposal, dad and mum couldn’t help but wonder: what if this was the solution? Gran loves us, she has a spacious flat, she’s always glad to see us… Maybe this really would solve at least part of the problems?
“I’ll call my mother,” dad finally said through gritted teeth. His voice sounded hoarse, as if the words were hard to get out. “If she agrees…”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Mum sharply interrupted him, and in her voice was such weariness that it surprised even her:
“Then we’ll finally stop tormenting each other. Call her. I’ll be happy not to see your face every day.”
Her words hung in the air. She didn’t want to be so harsh, but after years of accumulated hurts and disappointments, these words burst out on their own.
“And I’ll be glad too!” dad replied, trying to hide behind irony the pain that his wife’s words had caused him.
There was no anger in his tone only a bitter smile at what their family life had become. He took out his phone and slowly dialled his mother’s number. As the rings went on, both parents looked in different directions, avoiding each other’s eyes. They didn’t know yet what this conversation would lead to, but they understood: the point of no return might have already been passed…
That day, the Thompson family made a fateful decision. It all started with a long conversation between dad and gran. Gran listened attentively, not interrupting, only occasionally asking clarifying questions.
When dad finally laid it all out, a pause followed. Gran took a deep breath and said:
“If you both understand that this will be better for the children, I agree. They will be safe here, and I will take care of them.”
By evening, our parents met in the kitchen for the first time in a long while without shouting and mutual reproaches. They sat opposite each other and began discussing the details. Gradually, step by step, they agreed on one thing: divorce was the only reasonable way out of the situation. We would move in with gran, and our parents would transfer money to her each month for our support, in pounds.
But no one was going to abandon us to fate. Both dad and mum swore they would visit on weekends but on different days to minimize contact between them.
“I’ll come on Saturday mornings to take them out for a walk, and you on Sundays,” dad said wearily, to which mum nodded in agreement. “That’ll make it easier. The main thing is that the children don’t feel abandoned.”
Their main goal was to keep communication to a minimum and thereby avoid new conflicts. They agreed not to discuss each other in front of us, not to try to pull us to their side, not to argue in our presence.
“We’re still their parents,” dad said. “And we must remain so, even if we are no longer spouses.”
And as time showed, the decision turned out to be ideal. We finally could relax and start living like ordinary teenagers. Emily signed up for an art club she’d long dreamed of it, but before there wasn’t time because of constant worries. I started going to football, made new friends on the team. We started spending time together again: walking around the city, going to the cinema, discussing school matters without fear that a row would start at any moment.
Stability returned to our studies too. Now we had a quiet place to work, no one distracted us with shouts and arguments. Homework was done calmly, without nerves, and this immediately showed in our grades. Teachers noticed the changes: “You’ve become so attentive, kids! Keep it up!”
Gradually, life settled into a new rhythm not perfect, but calm and predictable. We no longer hid in our room, no longer flinched at loud voices, no longer worried about every step. We just lived as teenagers should, who were lucky to find support in the most difficult circumstances…
Five years later, life in the Thompson family flowed steadily and calmly. Emily and I had long grown used to the new routine: studies, clubs, meetings with friends, warm evenings at gran’s. Our parents still came on alternate days each on their own day, with gifts and attention, but without mutual complaints. Over these years, they had learned to communicate restrainedly, politely, without the old flashes of anger.
The first personal contact between our former parents happened at our graduation evening. The school was holding a formal event, and both parents, of course, came. They were cautious at first, sitting in different parts of the hall, but gradually the ice melted.
When the dancing started, dad unexpectedly approached mum:
“Shall we dance? For old times’ sake.”
She hesitated a moment, then nodded.
After the event, they sat for a long time in the school yard, watching the graduates having fun by the fountain. Conversation started on its own first about us, then about the past.
They talked a lot that evening, recalled happy moments from their marriage, and behaved quite decently. They spoke not of old grudges but of the good things that had once connected them. Emily and I, watching our parents from afar, couldn’t have been happier. Still, it hurt us to see two of the closest people to us treating each other almost like enemies.
But suddenly, out of the blue, disaster struck. The next day, our parents invited us to a cafe. Over a cup of tea, glancing at each other, they took each other’s hands, and dad announced with a wide smile:
“Kids, your mum and I have thought about it and decided to get married again. Over these years, we’ve realized that our feelings haven’t faded! We still love each other and want to become a family again.”
His voice sounded joyful, as if he was sharing the happiest news of his life. Mum beamed, clearly expecting an enthusiastic reaction.
We looked at each other our faces instantly darkened. Distrust flickered in Emily’s eyes, and I clenched my fists under the table. Not the same mistake again! What were our parents thinking? Could they really live together without conflicts?
“Are you serious?” was all Emily could manage to say.
“Absolutely,” dad replied confidently. “We’ve both changed. Learned to listen to each other. And we want to give our family a second chance.”
We stayed silent. Conflicting feelings raged inside us: on one hand, we wanted to believe that our parents had really changed; on the other we feared a repeat of the pain we’d experienced before.
However, we didn’t try to talk them out of it. We didn’t even comment on the statement, which greatly offended our parents. Mum looked at us in confusion:
“Aren’t you happy? We thought you’d be pleased for us.”
But we just exchanged glances and shrugged. What could we say? “Don’t do it! Don’t ruin your lives!”? The words stuck in our throats. We didn’t want to seem cold, but we couldn’t pretend everything was fine either.
The conversation didn’t flow for the rest of the meeting. Our parents tried to talk about their plans, we nodded politely, but our thoughts were elsewhere. On the way home, Emily quietly said to me:
“I hope they know what they’re doing.”
I just sighed in response…
“So, we’re going to London?” Emily opened her laptop, getting ready to browse university websites. “Far away from this madness. I can already imagine how this circus will end!”
“Of course we’re going,” I said firmly, and there was an unchildlike weariness in my voice. I ran a hand through my hair, as if trying to shake off the burden of the past months. “They’ll live peacefully for a month, maybe two at most. Then it’ll be the same old thing: shouting, doors slamming, accusations… I don’t want to be a hostage to their relationship anymore. I don’t want to wonder every morning what mood they’re in today and who among us will face another barrage of complaints.”
I stood up and paced the room, mechanically gathering scattered textbooks. One thought kept spinning in my head: why do adults, who should be examples of wisdom and stability, behave like unbalanced teenagers? Why, instead of solving problems, do they keep stepping on the same rake?
“We need to leave,” I repeated, stopping by the window. Outside, dusk was slowly falling, painting the city in soft orange tones. I looked into the distance, as if trying to glimpse my future there. “Far away. So far that their arguments can’t reach us. Let them sort it out themselves. We’re no longer their psychologists, their mediators, their lightning rods. We have our own lives, our own dreams, and I won’t let them destroy them with another round of parental madness.”
“When do we submit the applications?” Emily asked calmly.
“Tomorrow,” I replied without hesitation. “To make sure we don’t change our minds.”
My sister nodded silently, not taking her eyes off the monitor. On the screen, pages of London university websites flashed by she’d been studying the study programs, dormitory living conditions, job prospects after graduation for a week. Next to the laptop, her notebook was filling with lists: pros and cons of each option, required documents, deadlines, contacts for admissions offices.
“Mainly to study in peace, without being distracted by their arguments,” she said quietly, as if summarizing her thoughts. “Good thing we’ll be so far away.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, sitting down next to her. I tilted my head slightly, reading the lines on the screen. “And when they start figuring out who’s to blame again, we won’t even hear it. Let them call, complain, try to summon us to a ‘family council’ we’re not participating in that anymore. And their desire to ‘give the relationship a second chance’,” I said with a bitter smile, “that’s their choice, not ours.”
Mum and dad did go ahead and have their second wedding. This time, they deliberately refused a lavish celebration: they didn’t want extra expenses, didn’t want to attract attention, and honestly, they didn’t feel like they needed anything grand. They limited themselves to a modest ceremony at the registry office and dinner with the closest people parents, a few friends, us children.
In the photos from that day, they looked truly happy. Smiling, holding hands, looking at each other with tenderness and warmth. In the frame, you could see their intertwined fingers, soft gazes, light touches. It seemed that all grudges were forgotten, that the years of separation had done them good, that now they definitely knew what they wanted, and only a bright future awaited them ahead. Looking at these pictures, we couldn’t help but wonder: maybe this time everything would really turn out differently?
But… alas, no. The first weeks after the wedding passed surprisingly peacefully: the spouses tried to be more attentive to each other, said “thank you” more often, didn’t nitpick over small things. However, gradually the old habits began to return. Already after a month, raised voices were heard in their flat again. At first, these were restrained reproaches quiet but cutting: “You left your things out again?”, “Why didn’t you let me know you’d be late?”, “You could have helped since you’re home.”
Then open conflicts began. Arguments arose over trivial matters: someone left wet towels in the bathroom, someone forgot to buy bread, someone turned the TV on too loud… Words became sharper, voices louder, pauses between rows shorter.
And after two months, just as I had predicted, the situation reached a boiling point. One evening, an argument about who should buy groceries escalated into a real storm. Dad, unable to hold back, in a rage threw a cup at the wall it shattered with a loud crash, shards flying across the kitchen. Mum, no less furious, grabbed a plate from the table and hurled it to the floor with force. The sound of breaking dishes echoed through the flat.
After such scenes, our parents inevitably tried to call us. Each time the conversation started the same way: one of them would dial the number, barely catching their breath after the row, and immediately pour out the accumulated grievances.
“Can you believe what he said today?” mum would break down crying when Emily answered the phone. “He doesn’t even try to understand me!”
“Son, you have to understand me, she has no control over herself,” dad would say agitatedly to me. “I’m trying, I really am, but she seems to look for reasons!”
But Emily and I had learned to gently but firmly interrupt these monologues. We no longer got drawn into long discussions, didn’t try to figure out who was right and who was wrong. Our responses were short but firm.
“Mum, I’m in a class right now, I’ll call you back later,” Emily would say calmly, glancing at the clock: there were still twenty minutes until the start of the lecture, but she didn’t want to listen to another monologue.
“Dad, I have urgent work, let’s discuss this at the weekend,” I’d reply, not taking my eyes off the laptop screen. I knew that if I let the parent vent, the conversation would drag on for an hour, and then I’d have to calm them down too.
“Later” and “at the weekend” were invariably postponed. We found excuses studies, part-time jobs, meetings with friends and gradually the calls from our parents became less frequent. Emily and I didn’t feel guilty about it: we were simply protecting our nerves and time, knowing that we couldn’t change what was happening between mum and dad.
We really did have our own lives full, meaningful, far from our parents’ dramas. Each of our days now consisted of our own concerns, interests, and plans, not of waiting for the next row next door.
Emily threw herself into studying psychology. She liked figuring out how the human soul works, why people act one way or another, how to help those who found themselves in a difficult situation. In her third year, she started volunteering at a center for teenagers from troubled families. There she led group sessions, helped the kids express their feelings, find ways out of complex situations. Emily saw echoes of her own past in these teenagers and tried to give them what she had once lacked: attention, support, the feeling that they were heard.
I found my calling in IT. From the first years, I got hooked on programming I was fascinated by the logic of code, the ability to create working systems, solve complex technical problems. I spent a lot of time at the computer, studied new programming languages, participated in student hackathons. In my fourth year, my team took third place in a regional competition for developing mobile apps this gave me confidence and showed that I was moving in the right direction. I got a part-time job at a small IT company, where I quickly established myself as a responsible and capable employee. Working on real projects, I learned to interact with colleagues, manage time wisely, find solutions in unusual situations.
We began planning our future without looking back at our parents’ scandals. Emily dreamed of opening her own practice, helping families find common ground. I was thinking about my own business. We discussed plans over a cup of tea in a cafe, drew up schemes, wrote ideas in notebooks. And in those moments we felt: we have support. We have a path. We have a life that belongs only to us.
When mum and dad once again tried to drag us into their problems called in tears, started telling how bad everything was, how they didn’t understand each other we responded calmly and firmly. We had discussed in advance how we would conduct the conversation so as not to snap, not to fall into the usual role of mediators.
“Enough, dear parents, sort it out yourselves,” Emily stated firmly. “You have your life, we have ours.”
“But you’re our children!” mum sobbed. “You have to support us!”
“If you behaved normally, instead of like little children, we would support you,” I immediately declared. “You made a mistake by getting married again, and you continue to torment each other. You can’t coexist normally in one space, so why torture each other? Just get divorced and move apart already.”
These words might have seemed cruel, but… my sister and I just wanted to live in peace.
