Dear Diary,
I sit here in my room in our Warsaw apartment block, pen in hand, trying to make sense of the chaos that has defined our lives these past years. The shouting from my parents echoes in my mind even now, and I wonder how we ever endured it without breaking. Just yesterday their voices carried through the entire stairwell again, filling the building with that familiar, exhausting noise. Mateusz and I had been climbing the stairs when we both stopped dead, our eyes meeting in that silent understanding we had perfected over time. No words were needed; we knew we had to escape before it pulled us in. With a shared sigh we turned away and headed toward the neighboring entrance, where Babcia Elżbieta lives. We had no intention of returning home that evening.
Who in their right mind would choose to spend the night listening to endless parental arguments? Certainly not us. We walked with purpose to her place, which had become our true refuge in recent months. What once were occasional weekend visits had turned into almost nightly escapes. The atmosphere back home had grown so toxic that our parents seemed to forget everything else existed, yelling at each other without pause. The worst part was how they increasingly tried to drag Mateusz and me into the middle of it all.
Sometimes Mother would whirl toward me and demand, „Tell me I’m right, Zosia. You agree, don’t you?” Other times Father would turn to my brother without waiting, insisting, „No, I’m correct here! Back me up!” We stayed quiet. Taking sides felt impossible, and we refused to become pawns in their endless battle. All we craved was silence, calm, and the warmth we found only at Babcia’s.
These outbursts happened daily, like a scratched record no one could lift the needle from. We had grown skilled at spotting the warning signsthe shift in tone, the abrupt gestures, the way they glanced at each other. Those cues told us it was time to leave. No child should live under such constant strain, where any ordinary talk could explode into a full-blown row.
We never fully grasped what sparked this disaster. Our family had never been flawless like something from a magazine, yet before, our parents knew how to compromise. Disagreements arose, of course, but they resolved through quiet conversations rather than screams. Mother might frown, Father might raise his voice slightly, but within half an hour everything settled. We would gather around the table for herbata and plan our weekends together.
Roughly two years ago it all shifted. It felt as though someone had secretly swapped our parents for versions who found fault in the tiniest details. A dirty mug left on the table? Hours of lectures on carelessness and disrespect. A shirt hung on the wrong hook? Sharp remarks about household order. A forgotten teaspoon in the sink? Treated like a serious offense requiring lengthy analysis.
One evening I sat in Babcia Elżbieta’s kitchen, absently stirring my herbata. I watched the amber swirls in the cup for a long while before asking bitterly, „How did it come to this, Babcia? Everything fell apart after their joint vacation to the Mazury lakes. What really happened there?”
She paused, set her cup down, and gently touched my hand. She only guessed at the reasons behind the rift, and those guesses clearly troubled her. „Adults sort these things out in their own time,” she replied softly, her voice steady. „People sometimes need space to decide what’s best.”
I nodded, though doubt lingered in my eyes. I sensed she was holding something back, but pressing her felt pointless. As long as they viewed us as children, serious matters stayed off-limits.
„We can’t handle the screaming anymore!” Mateusz burst out in desperation. „Homework is impossible, reading a book feels like a luxury. I can’t even recall the last family meal we shared. If being together is this hard, they should just divorce and give everyone some peace!”
The words spilled out unfiltered, carrying the weight of recent months. He spoke for both of us; he knew I shared the exhaustion. Peace had vanished from our home long agoMother would snap, Father would answer irritably, and another fight would erupt with nowhere to hide.
„Mateusz…” Babcia looked startled. She set aside her knitting, studied him, and slowly shook her head. „Have you considered what divorce would mean? You two would be split apart. Are you prepared to live separately from Zosia?”
„We’ll stay with you!” I said at once, meeting her gaze with pleading eyes. „We’re already here most of the time anyway. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
Babcia Elżbieta went still. She understood our pain, saw how worn down we had become from the nonstop arguments. On one hand, we would be safe here in a peaceful setting where homework could happen without interruptions and books could be read in quiet. She loved us deeply and stood ready to wrap us in care.
On the other hand, what about our parents? How would we explain that we no longer wanted to live at home? Would they accept it? If they did, how might it affect their bond with us? Could this choice lead to a total break?
„Let’s not decide in haste,” she said after a deep breath. „You know I’m always glad to have you here. But first let’s try speaking with your mother and father. Perhaps together we can find a way to mend things.”
„Don’t worry, we’ll handle the talk ourselves,” I replied confidently, smiling. Babcia was nearly on our side, and that mattered most. „Just don’t turn us down, please! We truly can’t stay there any longer. It would be better for them apartotherwise they might actually hurt each other one day. I saw Father raise his hand at Mother yesterday… He didn’t strike her, truly! But he came close.”
I stopped, the memory flooding back. I had gone to the kitchen for water and halted in the doorway: Father half-turned toward Mother, his hand suddenly lifted, Mother instinctively flinching. He lowered it a moment later, yet that instant stretched endlessly for me.
„Babcia, please say yes!” Mateusz urged, stepping closer and taking her hand as if to anchor her decision. „We’ll help with every chore around the house. Just don’t send us back. They barely notice us! Yesterday I told Father about the parent meeting. Know what he said? 'Ask your mother!’ So I did. Guess her reply?”
„Go to your father?” Babcia asked quietly, already knowing.
„Exactly!” Mateusz gave a bitter laugh. „Then they argued another two hours over who should attend. Sat in separate rooms shouting across the hallway while I stood there listening.”
„I asked them to sign a form for the museum excursion,” I added, eyes down. My fingers twisted the edge of my sleeve. „Now I’m the only one in class who won’t go. Neither signed it. Instead they foughtMather yelled it was Father’s duty, Father insisted she handle school things.”
Babcia watched us and saw the depth of our fatigue. It wasn’t ordinary tiredness but the kind built from months of identical days, family warmth replaced by constant clashes, support replaced by indifference.
„It’s always this way,” Mateusz sighed, shoulders slumping. His voice carried the exhaustion of repetition. „Every request turns into fresh ammunition for arguments. We don’t even want to come home. A few nights ago we returned at eleven and they didn’t scold us at all. Just sent us to bed without asking where we’d been. Later they blamed each other for bad parenting for hours.”
We sighed together once more. Lately we had seriously considered divorce as the only escape. Yet the thought of separation terrified usone staying with Mother, one with Father, our closeness reduced to occasional weekends.
We whispered about options in our room at night. Once Mateusz jokingly suggested running away, backpacks in hand, going anywhere. He smiled to ease the tension, but I took it seriously. My eyes brightened briefly before I whispered, „What if we actually left? Even for a couple of days…” In that instant we both realized the home situation had grown so unbearable that fleeing no longer seemed insane.
Then the idea struck: Babcia! Why not move in with her? The thought hit us simultaneously. I voiced it first: „What if we ask Babcia to let us live here? She won’t shout or argue. We won’t have to hear those endless fights…” Mateusz jumped in: „Yes! She’s kind and always supports us. Her apartment is big enough for all of us.”
We started imagining a new lifepeaceful breakfasts, quiet homework time, evenings with board games. No yelling, no accusations, no hiding in our room. Hope flickered for the first time in ages. Let our parents resolve their issues; we would finally find calm. That was what we pictured as we dreamed of life with Babcia.
One evening we faced them directly. „Mother, Father, we need a serious talk,” we said firmly in the living room. We had waited until both were home and entered together. I gripped Mateusz’s hand for steadiness. „But first promise to hear us out completely before reacting.”
Piotr glanced up from his phone, surprised. Anna straightened from arranging items on the sofa, her expression suggesting we had said something unthinkable.
„This is your doing!” she snapped, arms crossed. „The children are dictating terms now, as if we must answer to them!”
„And who are you to talk!” Father shot back, setting his phone down. „I’m always working to support us. You were home with them constantly! What did you teach them that they now give orders?”
We looked at each other. We had expected the usual slide into mutual blame, but we couldn’t retreat.
„Enough!” I cried, voice trembling. I stepped forward, forcing calm despite the shaking inside. „Mateusz and I decided you should divorce.”
Silence fell. Anna’s mouth opened; Piotr rose slowly from the sofa.
„What news!” Mother said threateningly. „Zosia, you’re far too young to advise adults on living! What else have you 'decided’? Perhaps divide our flat too?”
„If you don’t divorce, we’ll contact child services,” Mateusz said, squeezing my hand. His voice held steady even as doubt churned within. „Then Father, you could lose your job. Your firm dislikes scandalsyou said reputation matters above all.”
„And you, Mother,” I continued, meeting her eyes, „neighbors will lose respect. They won’t speak to you! Everyone hears your fights, and we’ll fill in the details!”
„They’re threatening us! Look at them!” Anna exclaimed, glancing between us. „These are our children! How can you treat us this way?”
„We’re not threatening,” Mateusz replied quietly but firmly. „We want you to see we can’t continue like this. We’re exhaustedfrom the shouting, from being unheard, from every request sparking a fight.”
„You’ll divorce and move apart, and we’ll live with Babcia,” we said together, as rehearsed. „It’s better for everyone: peace for us, no constant conflict for you. We refuse to stay caught between you like in a crossfire.”
Our parents froze, words failing them for once. Normally they would argue and interrupt immediately, hunting for blame. Now both seemed struck silent.
Their thirteen-year-old twins stood hand in hand, gazing steadily without our usual shyness. We spoke of grave matters the adults avoided.
They had considered divorce themselves many times. The sticking point was always uswho would we live with? Splitting twins felt wrong; we did everything together and leaned on each other. They couldn’t envision separating us into different homes with only weekend visits.
The idea of us with Babcia had never occurred to them before. Absorbed in grievances, it simply hadn’t crossed their minds. Hearing our proposal now, they paused to wonder: could this be the solution? Babcia adored us, her flat was spacious, she welcomed us always. Perhaps it would ease at least some problems.
„I’ll call my mother,” Piotr said through clenched teeth, voice strained. „If she agrees…”
He didn’t finish. Anna cut in, her tone revealing a fatigue that surprised even her. „Then we’ll stop tormenting each other at last. Call her. I’ll be glad not to see your face daily.”
Her words lingered. She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but years of hurt let them slip out.
„And I’ll be just as glad!” Piotr answered, masking pain with irony. No anger colored his voice, only a bitter smile at what their marriage had become. He pulled out his phone and dialed. During the rings, they avoided each other’s eyes. Neither knew the outcome, yet both sensed a line had been crossed.
That day our family chose a new path. It began with Piotr’s long talk with Babcia Elżbieta. She listened without interrupting, asking only occasional questions. When he finished, she sighed deeply. „If you both believe this serves the children best, I agree. They’ll be safe here, and I’ll look after them.”
By evening our parents met in the kitchen without raised voices for the first time in ages. Sitting opposite each other, they discussed details step by step until agreeing divorce was the only sensible route. We would move to Babcia’s while they sent monthly support in Polish złoty. Neither planned to abandon us. Both vowed to visit on weekends but on alternate days to limit contact.
„I’ll come Saturday mornings to take them out,” Father said tiredly. Anna nodded. „You take Sundays. The key is they don’t feel discarded.”
Their goal was minimal interaction to prevent new clashes. They promised not to criticize each other around us, not to pull us into sides, not to argue in our presence.
„We remain their parents,” Piotr noted. „And must continue as such even if no longer spouses.”
Time proved the choice wise. We finally relaxed and lived as ordinary teenagers. I joined a drawing club I had long wanted but couldn’t pursue amid the stress. Mateusz took up football and made friends on the team. We spent time together againwandering Warsaw streets, catching films, talking school without fear of sudden explosions.
Our studies stabilized too. Quiet space for work meant no distractions from fights. Homework happened calmly, grades improved quickly. Teachers remarked, „You’ve become so focusedkeep going!”
Life settled into a steady rhythm, not perfect but peaceful and foreseeable. We stopped hiding in our room, stopped jumping at loud voices, stopped worrying over every move. We simply lived as teenagers lucky enough to find steadiness amid turmoil.
Five years on, the Nowak household moved at a measured pace. Mateusz and I had adjusted fully to the routine: classes, activities, friends, cozy evenings with Babcia. Parents visited in turns, each on their day, bringing gifts and attention yet without old grievances. They had learned measured, polite exchanges free of prior anger.
Their first direct meeting after separation came at our graduation. Both attended the formal evening and sat apart at first, wary. Gradually the distance eased. During the dancing Piotr approached Anna: „Shall we dance? For old times.”
She paused, then agreed.
Afterward they sat long in the schoolyard watching graduates by the fountain. Talk flowed naturallyfrom us to shared past. They recalled happy marriage moments and acted with dignity, focusing on good times rather than old wounds. Watching from afar, we felt relief mixed with lingering pain at seeing our closest people treat each other almost as foes.
Then came the unexpected. Next day they invited us to a café. Over herbata they clasped hands, and Piotr smiled broadly. „Children, your mother and I have decided to remarry. These years showed our feelings never faded. We still love each other and want our family back.”
His voice rang joyful, as if sharing life’s greatest news. Anna glowed, anticipating delight.
We glanced at each other, faces clouding. Doubt flashed in my eyes; Mateusz’s fists tightened beneath the table. The same errors again! What were they thinking? Could they truly share space without conflict?
„Are you serious?” I managed.
„Completely,” Piotr answered firmly. „We’ve both changed. Learned to listen. We want a second chance for our family.”
Silence held us. Conflicting emotions swirledhope they had truly shifted, fear of repeating past hurt.
We offered no protest, no comment even, which wounded them deeply. Anna looked bewildered. „Aren’t you pleased? We expected happiness for us.”
We merely shrugged. What could we say without seeming cold or false? Words failed. The rest of the visit dragged; they spoke of plans while we nodded politely, thoughts elsewhere. On the way home I murmured to Mateusz, „I hope they understand what they’re doing.”
He only sighed.
„So we’re heading to Warsaw for university?” I opened my laptop to check programs. „Far from this mess. I can already picture how this cycle will repeat.”
„Of course,” Mateusz replied with adult weariness, running a hand through his hair. „They’ll manage peace for a month or two at most. Then shouts, slammed doors, blame return. I refuse to stay hostage to their relationship anymore. I won’t wake each morning wondering their mood or who faces the next wave of complaints.”
He paced, gathering books. The same question circled: why do adults, meant to model wisdom, act like erratic teens? Why repeat the same mistakes instead of solving issues?
„We have to leave,” he repeated at the window as dusk painted Warsaw orange. „Far enough their fights can’t touch us. Let them handle it. We’re no longer their counselors or shields. We have our own lives and dreams; I won’t let another round of their chaos destroy them.”
„When do we apply?” I asked calmly.
„Tomorrow,” he said without pause. „Before we waver.”
I nodded, scanning Warsaw university sites I had researched for dayscourses, dorms, job outlooks. My notebook held lists of pros, cons, deadlines, contacts.
„Main thing is studying without their drama,” I said quietly. „Good we’ll be distant.”
„Precisely,” he agreed, leaning in. „When they resume blaming each other we won’t hear it. Let them call and complainwe’re done with family councils. Their wish for another chance is their choice, not ours.”
They did remarry, choosing a simple ceremony at the registry office followed by a small dinner with close family and friends. No grand event, no extra cost or attention. Photos showed genuine smiles, clasped hands, tender looks. Intertwined fingers and soft glances suggested old hurts forgotten, separation beneficial. We wondered if this time might truly differ.
But it did not. Early weeks passed calmly; they grew attentive, thanked each other often, avoided petty jabs. Old patterns returned within a monthraised voices over minor things: unwashed dishes, late warnings, unoffered help. Conflicts escalated over trivialitieswet towels, forgotten bread, loud television. Words sharpened, voices grew louder, quiet intervals vanished.
Two months later, as Mateusz foresaw, tension peaked. An argument over groceries turned explosive. Father hurled a cup at the wall in rage; it shattered, shards flying. Mother grabbed and smashed a plate in reply, the crash echoing. Afterward they always phoned us, unloading grievances mid-breath.
„Can you imagine what he said today?” Mother sobbed into the line. „He never tries to understand me!”
„Son, she loses all control,” Father told Mateusz agitatedly. „I try, but she hunts for reasons!”
We learned to cut these talks short gently yet firmly. No more long debates over right and wrong. Answers stayed brief and clear.
„Mother, I’m in lecture nowI’ll ring later,” I said, eyeing the clock though time remained. I simply wanted no more monologue.
„Father, urgent workdiscuss this weekend,” Mateusz replied, focused on his screen. He knew listening fully would extend the call an hour, followed by soothing.
„Later” and „weekend” kept getting delayed. We cited studies, part-time work, friends. Calls grew rarer. No guilt followed; we guarded our peace, aware we couldn’t fix their dynamic.
Our own lives thrivedfull, purposeful, distant from their dramas. Days revolved around our concerns and plans, not bracing for the next row.
I immersed in psychology, drawn to understanding minds, motivations, and aiding those in distress. By third year I volunteered at a center for teens from troubled homes, leading groups to express feelings and find solutions. Seeing echoes of our past in them, I offered the attention and support once missing for me.
Mateusz discovered IT, captivated by code’s logic and building functional systems. He studied languages, joined hackathons. His team placed third in a regional app contest in fourth year, boosting confidence. A part-time role at a small firm followed; he proved reliable, learning collaboration and time management on real tasks.
We planned futures free of parental storms. I envisioned my own practice helping families communicate. Mateusz considered starting a business. Over café herbata we sketched ideas, noting them down. In those moments we felt grounded, with direction and lives truly ours.
When they tried pulling us backcalling tearfully about misunderstandingswe answered calmly and firmly. We had prepared to avoid slipping into old mediator roles.
„Enough, parentsresolve this yourselves,” I stated. „You have your life; we have ours.”
„But you’re our children!” Mother cried. „You must support us!”
„If you acted like adults instead of children, we would,” Mateusz shot back. „Remarrying was a mistake, and you keep hurting each other. Since you can’t share space peacefully, stop the torment. Divorce and separate already.”
The words might sound harsh, yet we simply sought calm. As I close this entry, that desire remains unchanged.
