I still think back to that evening when my sister Lucia and I were heading up the stairs in our condominium here in Milano. We stopped cold as my mother’s voice rang out from behind our apartment door, sharp and exhausted: “What’s the matter with you this time? How much more of this can I take? I’ve had enough!” The shouting carried all the way down the hallway, impossible to ignore.
Lucia and I locked eyes for a second, no words needed. We both knew the smart move was to turn around and keep walking. We let out a quiet breath together and left the building behind. Spending another night listening to our parents tear into each other was the last thing either of us wanted. We made our way to the next entrance where nonna Caterina lived. Her place had turned into our real shelter these past months. What used to be weekend visits had become almost nightly stays.
Things at home had grown impossible to bear. Our parents screamed at each other without pause, lost in their own anger, and lately they kept pulling us into the middle of it. One minute mother would spin toward Lucia and demand she take her side, the next father would corner me and insist I back him up. We stayed quiet, refusing to pick sides or get dragged into their endless battles. All we craved was some quiet and comfort, the kind we only found at nonna’s.
The same pattern played out day after day, like a tune stuck on repeat that nobody knew how to shut off. We got good at spotting the warning signs right awaythe rising pitch in their voices, the way they slammed things around, the quick glances they traded. Those signals told us it was time to slip away. No kid wants to grow up under that kind of pressure, where even a normal conversation can explode into a full-blown fight at any moment.
We never could figure out what had started this whole mess. Our family was never the picture-perfect kind you see in ads, but before, our parents actually worked things out. Sure, disagreements popped up now and then, but they always ended with level talks instead of yelling. Mother might frown, father might raise his voice a bit, yet within half an hour it was settled. Everyone would sit down again, share a coffee, and plan the weekend.
Then, roughly two years back, something shifted after their trip together. It felt like someone had swapped our old parents for different people who picked fights over the smallest things. A coffee mug left on the counter? Hours of lectures about carelessness and disrespect. A shirt hung on the wrong hook? Sharp jabs about how the house was falling apart. A spoon forgotten in the sink? Treated like a serious offense that needed a long interrogation.
One night at nonna’s, Lucia sat at the kitchen table stirring her coffee, watching the swirls in the cup. After a long silence she asked with real hurt in her voice what had gone wrong during that vacation. Nonna Caterina set her cup down, reached over and gently patted Lucia’s hand. She admitted she was only guessing at the reasons herself and didn’t like what she suspected.
“Adults will sort themselves out,” she said softly, trying to sound steady. “Sometimes people just need time to figure out the right path.”
Lucia nodded, but her eyes showed she wasn’t convinced. She knew nonna was holding something back, yet she didn’t push. What was the point when we were still treated like kids who couldn’t handle real talk?
“We can’t take the yelling anymore,” I said, the frustration spilling out. “I can’t focus on homework or even read a book. I don’t remember the last time we all sat down together for a meal. If being together is this hard for them, they should just separate and give everyone some relief.”
The words came out before I could stop them, but they were the truth of the last few months. I spoke for both of usLucia felt the exact same way. Our house had lost any sense of calm. Mother would snap something, father would answer with irritation, and the back-and-forth would start all over with nowhere to hide.
“Matteo…” nonna said, setting aside her knitting. She studied me closely and slowly shook her head. “Have you thought about what happens if they split up? You’d have to be divided. Are you ready to live apart from Lucia?”
“We’ll stay here with you,” Lucia answered right away, looking at nonna with pleading eyes. “We’re already here most of the time anyway. You don’t mind, do you?”
Nonna Caterina went still. She understood how worn down we were from all the fighting. On one hand, we would be safe with her in a peaceful spot where we could study without noise and feel protected. She loved us deeply and was 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 even agree? And if they did, how would it change our bond with them? Could this choice end up cutting us off from them completely?
“Let’s not rush into anything,” she said after a deep breath. “I’m always happy to have you here, you know that. But first let’s try talking to your mother and father. Maybe together we can find a way to make things better.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll speak with them ourselves,” Lucia said with a hopeful smile. She could tell nonna was close to agreeing, and that mattered most. “Just don’t turn us away, please. We really can’t stay there anymore. They’d be better off apart toootherwise one day they might actually hurt each other. I saw father raise his hand at mother yesterday… He didn’t hit her, I swear, but he was right on the edge.”
Lucia went quiet, remembering that awful moment. She had walked into the kitchen for water and frozen in the doorway: father half-turned toward mother, his arm suddenly lifting, mother ducking on instinct. A second later he lowered it, but that second had felt endless to her.
“Nonna, say yes,” I added, stepping closer and taking her hand like I was afraid she might pull away. “We’ll help with everything around the house. Just don’t make us go back. They barely notice us anymore. The other day I told father about a parent meeting at school. You know what he said? ‘Go ask your mother.’ So I did. Guess what she told me?”
“Go ask your father?” nonna Caterina asked quietly, already knowing.
“Exactly,” I said with a bitter laugh. “Then they spent the next two hours arguing over who had to go, yelling from separate rooms down the hallway while I just stood there listening.”
“I asked them to sign a form for a class museum trip,” Lucia added, staring down at her sleeve and twisting the fabric. “Now I’m the only one in my class who won’t go. Neither of them signed it. Instead they started fighting againmother yelling that it was his job, father insisting she should handle school stuff.”
Nonna Caterina looked at us and saw the deep tiredness in our faces. It wasn’t ordinary kid exhaustion. It was the kind built up over months of the same thing every day, with family warmth replaced by constant arguments and indifference instead of support.
“And it’s always like this,” I said, shoulders dropping. My voice came out weary, like I’d said it a hundred times already. “Any time we need something, it turns into another fight. We don’t even want to come home. A couple nights ago we got back at eleven and they didn’t even scold us. They just told us to go to bed without asking where we’d been. Then they spent ages blaming each other for raising us wrong.”
Lucia and I both sighed at the same time. Lately we’d seriously wondered if our parents divorcing was the only escape. But the thought of being split up terrified us. One of us would end up with mother, the other with father, and our closeness would shrink to occasional weekend visits.
We talked about it in whispers at night in our room, weighing every option. Once I joked about just running away with backpacks and no plan. I smiled to lighten the mood, but Lucia took it seriously. Her eyes lit up for a moment before she said quietly, “What if we really did leave? Even for a few days…” In that instant we both realized things had gotten so bad that even the idea of running away didn’t seem crazy anymore.
Then it hit us at the same time: nonna. Why not move in with her? The thought came to both of us together. Lucia spoke first: “What if we ask nonna if we can live here? She won’t yell or fight. We won’t have to listen to all that arguing.” I jumped in right away: “Yes! She’s kind and always backs us up. Her apartment is big enough for all of us.”
We started picturing the new life in our headsquiet breakfasts, doing homework without interruptions, evenings playing board games with nonna. No shouting, no accusations, no need to lock ourselves in our room to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. For the first time in ages, a small spark of hope flickered in us. Let our parents figure out their own mess; we could finally have some peace.
“Lucia, father, we need to have a serious talk,” we said together that evening, standing in the living room. We had waited until both parents were home and walked in determined. Lucia held my hand tight for courage. “But first promise you’ll hear us out completely before you say anything.”
Father looked up from his phone, surprised. Mother stopped arranging things on the couch and straightened up, her face showing she thought we had said something unthinkable.
“This is all your doing,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “The children are already giving us rules, like we have to answer to them!”
“And who are you to talk?” father shot back, setting his phone down. “I’m always at work trying to provide for everyone. You’ve been with them all the time! What exactly did you teach them that now they’re the ones in charge?”
Lucia and I glanced at each other. We had expected the conversation to slide straight into their usual blame game. But we couldn’t back down.
“Enough!” Lucia said, her voice tight with tears she was holding back. She stepped forward, trying to stay clear and steady even though everything inside her was shaking. “Matteo and I have thought about this, and we believe you two should get a divorce.”
The room went completely silent. Mother stood with her mouth half open, father slowly rose from the couch.
“Now this is news,” she said in a threatening tone. “Lucia, you’re still too young to tell adults how to live their lives! And what else have you two ‘decided’? Maybe you’ll divide up the apartment for us too?”
“If you don’t divorce, we’ll go to the social services,” I said, gripping Lucia’s hand harder. My voice stayed firm even if I wasn’t fully sure I meant it yet. “And then, father, you could lose your job. Your company doesn’t like scandals, right? You said yourself that reputation is everything.”
“And you, mother,” Lucia continued, looking straight at her, “the neighbors will stop respecting you. They won’t even talk to you anymore! Everyone already knows how you two scream at each other, and we’ll fill in the rest.”
“They’re threatening us! Can you believe this?” mother finally got out, looking from one of us to the other. “These are our own children! How can you speak to us this way?”
“We’re not threatening you,” I said quietly but firmly. “We just want you to see that living like this isn’t possible anymore. We’re exhausted. Tired of the shouting, of you not listening to us, of every small request turning into a fight.”
“You’ll divorce, move apart, and we’ll live with nonna,” we finished together, like we had practiced. “It’ll be better for everyone: we’ll have peace, you’ll have no more constant conflicts. We don’t want to be stuck in the middle anymore.”
Our parents just stood there. For the first time in a long while, neither had an answer ready. Usually they would jump straight into arguing and cutting each other off, but now both seemed unable to speak.
Their thirteen-year-old twins were acting in a way they never expected. Lucia and I stood side by side, hands clasped, facing them with steady eyes and no trace of our usual shyness. We were talking about serious matters they had tried to avoid thinking about themselves.
They had both considered divorce before. What always stopped them was the same questionwho would the children stay with? Splitting twins who did everything together and supported each other felt unthinkable. They couldn’t picture separating us into different homes and only seeing us on weekends.
The idea of us living with nonna had never crossed their minds before. They had been too wrapped up in their own grudges and complaints. But hearing it from us now made them pause: what if this really was the way forward? Nonna loved us, her apartment was spacious, and she was always glad to see us. Maybe this could solve at least part of the problem.
“I’ll call my mother,” father said through clenched teeth, his voice low like the words were hard to force out. “If she agrees…”
He didn’t get to finish. Mother cut in sharply, and the tiredness in her voice surprised even her: “Then we can finally stop tormenting each other. Make the call. I’ll be happy not to see your face every single day.”
Her words hung there. She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but years of built-up hurts and disappointments had pushed them out.
“And I’ll be just as happy,” father answered, trying to cover his pain with sarcasm.
There was no real anger in his tone, just a bitter smile at what their life together had become. He pulled out his phone and slowly dialed nonna’s number. While it rang, both parents stared in different directions, avoiding each other’s eyes. They didn’t know where this would lead, but they understood a line might have already been crossed.
That day our family made a life-changing choice. It started with a long conversation between father and nonna Caterina. She listened carefully without interrupting, only asking a few clarifying questions now and then.
When father finally finished explaining everything, there was a pause. Nonna took a deep breath and said: “If you both believe this is better for the children, then I agree. They will be safe here, and I’ll take care of them.”
By evening our parents met in the kitchen for the first time in a long while without raised voices or accusations. They sat across from each other and went over the details step by step until they agreed divorce was the only sensible solution. We would move in with nonna, and they would send her money each month for our support.
Neither planned to abandon us. Both swore they would visit on weekends, but on different days to keep contact between them as small as possible.
“I’ll come Saturday mornings and take them out for a walk, and you can come Sunday,” father said tiredly, and mother nodded in agreement. “That will make things simpler. The main thing is the children shouldn’t feel left behind.”
Their goal was to limit interaction and avoid new fights. They promised not to talk badly about each other in front of us, not to try pulling us to one side, and not to argue when we were around.
“We are still their parents,” father said. “And we need to stay that way, even if we’re no longer married.”
As time went on, the decision proved to be the right one. We finally relaxed and started living like regular teenagers. Lucia signed up for a drawing class she had wanted for ages but never had the chance because of all the stress. I joined a soccer team and made new friends there. We spent time together again, walking through the city, going to the movies, talking about school without worrying a fight would erupt at any second.
Stability returned to our studies too. We had a quiet place to work now, with no distractions from shouting. Homework got done calmly, without nerves, and our grades improved right away. Teachers noticed: “You’ve become so focused, kids! Keep it up!”
Slowly life settled into a new rhythmnot perfect, but steady and predictable. We stopped hiding in our room, stopped jumping at loud voices, stopped worrying about every little thing. We simply lived, the way teenagers should when they find support in the middle of hard times.
Five years later, things in our family moved along steadily and without drama. Lucia and I had grown used to the new routine: school, activities, time with friends, warm evenings at nonna’s. Our parents still came on alternate days, each bringing small gifts and attention but no complaints toward each other. Over those years they had learned to speak politely and calmly, without the old angry outbursts.
The first real meeting between our former parents happened at our high school graduation. The school held a formal evening, and both came of course. At first they stayed cautious, sitting at opposite ends of the hall, but gradually the tension eased.
When the dancing started, father walked over to mother unexpectedly: “Would you like to dance? For old times’ sake.”
She hesitated briefly, then nodded.
Afterward they sat for a long time in the school courtyard, watching the graduates celebrate near the fountain. The conversation started naturallyfirst about us, then about the past. They talked a lot that night, remembering the good parts of their marriage and acting with real dignity. They focused on the positive things that had once connected them instead of old grudges. From a distance, Lucia and I watched and felt glad for them, even though it had hurt to see two people we loved treat each other almost like enemies.
But then everything changed without warning. The next day our parents invited us to a café. Over tea they looked at each other, took hands, and father announced with a big smile: “Kids, your mother and I have thought about it and decided to get married again. Over these years we’ve realized our feelings never went away! We still love each other and want to be a family once more.”
His voice sounded joyful, like he was sharing the best news possible. Mother beamed, clearly expecting us to be excited.
Lucia and I exchanged looksour faces darkened right away. Doubt flashed in her eyes while I clenched my fists under the table. The same mistakes all over again! What were they thinking? Could they really live together without the old conflicts?
“Are you serious?” was all Lucia could manage.
“Completely,” father answered confidently. “We’ve both changed. We’ve learned to listen to each other. And we want to give our family another chance.”
We stayed quiet. Inside we felt tornpart of us wanted to believe they had truly changed, but the other part feared reliving the pain we had already gone through.
We didn’t try to talk them out of it. We didn’t even comment on the announcement, which clearly upset them. Mother looked at us, confused: “Aren’t you happy? We thought you’d be glad for us.”
But we just glanced at each other and shrugged. What could we say? “Don’t do this! Don’t ruin your lives again”? The words stayed stuck. We didn’t want to seem cold, but we couldn’t pretend everything was fine either.
The rest of the visit felt forced. Our parents tried sharing their plans while we nodded politely, but our minds were elsewhere. On the way home Lucia said quietly to me: “I hope they know what they’re doing.”
I just sighed in reply.
“So we’re heading to Roma?” Lucia opened her laptop, ready to check university sites. “Far away from all this craziness. I can already picture how this circus is going to end.”
“Of course we’re going,” I said firmly, sounding older than my years. I ran a hand through my hair like I was trying to shake off the weight of the last few months. “They’ll manage peacefully for a month, maybe two at most. Then it’ll start again: the shouting, doors slamming, accusations. I don’t want to be trapped in their relationship anymore. I don’t want to wake up every morning wondering what mood they’re in and which one of us will catch the next wave of complaints.”
I stood and paced the room, absentmindedly gathering scattered books. One thought kept circling: why do adults, who should show wisdom and steadiness, act like unbalanced teenagers? Why do they keep repeating the same mistakes instead of solving their problems?
“We need to leave,” I repeated, stopping by the window. Outside the sky was turning to dusk, painting the city in soft orange tones. I stared out, trying to see my future in the distance. “Far away. Far enough that their fights can’t reach us. Let them handle their own issues. We’re not their therapists, their go-betweens, or their lightning rods anymore. We have our own lives and dreams, and I won’t let another round of their chaos destroy them.”
“When do we submit the applications?” Lucia asked calmly.
“Tomorrow,” I answered without hesitation. “So we definitely won’t change our minds.”
She nodded silently, eyes on the screen. Pages from Roma university sites flashed byshe had spent the past week studying programs, dorm options, and job prospects after graduation. Her notebook next to the laptop was filling with lists: pros and cons of each choice, required documents, deadlines, and contact details for admissions offices.
“The important thing is to study in peace without their fights pulling us in,” she said quietly, as if wrapping up her thoughts. “It’s good we’ll be so far away.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, sitting beside her. I leaned in to read the lines on the screen. “And when they start blaming each other again, we won’t even hear it. They can call, complain, try to drag us into a ‘family meeting’we’re not part of that anymore. And their wish to ‘give the relationship another chance,'” I added with a bitter smile, “that’s their decision, not ours.”
Mother and father went through with the second wedding after all. This time they skipped any big celebration on purpose: they didn’t want extra expenses or attention, and honestly they didn’t feel the need for something grand. They kept it to a simple ceremony at the registry office and a dinner with just close family and a few friends.
In the photos from that day they looked truly happy. Smiling, holding hands, gazing at each other with warmth and affection. You could see their fingers intertwined, soft looks, gentle touches. It seemed like all the old hurts were forgotten, that the years apart had helped, and that now they knew exactly what they wanted with only bright days ahead. Looking at those pictures, we couldn’t help wondering if this time things might actually work out differently.
But no, they didn’t. The first weeks after the wedding were surprisingly peaceful. They tried to be more attentive, said “thank you” more often, and didn’t nitpick over small things. Yet gradually the old patterns crept back. Within a month the apartment was filled with raised voices again. It started with quiet but cutting remarks: “Did you leave that again without cleaning up?” “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be late?” “You could have helped since you’re home anyway.”
Then came open arguments. Fights broke out over nothinga wet towel left in the bathroom, forgetting to buy bread, the TV turned up too loud. Words grew sharper, voices louder, and the gaps between arguments shorter.
Two months later, just as I had predicted, things reached a breaking point. One evening an argument over who should buy groceries turned into a real storm. Father, losing control, angrily threw a cup against the wallit shattered loudly, pieces scattering across the kitchen floor. Mother, just as furious, grabbed a plate from the table and smashed it on the ground. The sound of breaking dishes echoed through the apartment.
After scenes like that, they always tried calling us. Each time the conversation started the same way: one of them would dial right after catching their breath from the fight and unload all their accumulated grievances.
“Can you believe what he said today?” mother would say, voice breaking as Lucia answered. “He doesn’t even try to understand me!”
“Son, you have to see my sideshe has no control over herself,” father would tell me urgently. “I’m trying, I really am, but she seems to look for reasons to fight.”
Lucia and I learned to cut these monologues short, gently but firmly. We refused to get pulled into long discussions or figure out who was right or wrong. Our answers stayed short and steady.
“Mother, I’m in class right now, I’ll call you back later,” Lucia would say calmly, checking the timetwenty minutes until her next lecture, but she had no interest in another long rant.
“Father, I have urgent work, let’s talk about this on the weekend,” I would answer, not looking up from my laptop. I knew if I let him vent, the call would stretch for an hour and then I’d have to calm him down too.
“Later” and “on the weekend” always got pushed further. We found excusesstudies, part-time jobs, time with friendsand gradually the calls from our parents became less frequent. We didn’t feel guilty about it. We were simply protecting our nerves and time, knowing we couldn’t fix what was happening between them.
We truly had our own lives nowfull, meaningful, and far from their dramas. Each day was shaped by our own concerns, interests, and plans instead of waiting for the next fight behind the wall.
Lucia threw herself into studying psychology. She enjoyed understanding how the human mind works, why people act the way they do, and how to help those facing tough situations. In her third year she started volunteering at a center for teens from difficult homes. There she led group sessions, helped young people express their feelings, and find ways out of complicated problems. She saw echoes of our own past in those teens and tried to give them what she had once lacked: attention, support, the feeling that someone was listening.
I found my path in information technology. From the early years I got hooked on programmingthe logic of code fascinated me, along with the chance to build working systems and solve complex technical challenges. I spent hours at the computer, learning new programming languages and joining student hackathons. In my fourth year my team placed third in a regional competition for developing mobile appsthat gave me confidence and showed I was heading in the right direction. I took a part-time job at a small IT company where I quickly proved myself as reliable and capable. Working on real projects taught me how to collaborate with colleagues, manage my time well, and come up with solutions in unusual situations.
We started planning our futures without worrying about our parents’ fights. Lucia dreamed of opening her own practice to help families communicate better. I thought about starting my own business. We discussed ideas over coffee in cafés, drew up plans, and wrote everything in notebooks. In those moments we felt we had a foundation. A direction. A life that belonged only to us.
When mother and father tried once more to drag us into their problemscalling in tears to describe how terrible everything was and how they couldn’t understand each otherwe answered calmly and firmly. We had already talked through how to handle the conversation so we wouldn’t lose our temper or fall back into our old role as mediators.
“That’s enough, dear parentsfigure it out yourselves,” Lucia stated clearly. “You have your life, we have ours.”
“But you’re our children!” mother sobbed. “You have to support us!”
“If you acted normally instead of like little kids, we would support you,” I said immediately. “You made a mistake getting married again and you keep hurting each other. You can’t live together in the same space without problems, so why keep tormenting one another? Just divorce and move apart already.”
Those words might have sounded harsh, yet Lucia and I simply wanted to live in peace. From everything we went through, I learned that while family ties matter deeply in our culture, there are times when creating healthy distance becomes essential to safeguard your own peace and let yourself grow without being pulled back into the same destructive patterns over and over.
