I heard my mother’s voice yelling again from behind our apartment door, loud enough to echo through the whole stairwell. “What is wrong with you this time?! How much longer can this go on?! I am completely fed up with it all!”
Right then, my sister Lieke and I were heading up the stairs. We stopped dead, like we had slammed into something we could not see. Our eyes met for a second, and we understood each other without a word. It was time to leave. We let out a shared breath, turned around, and slipped away from the building without a sound. Neither of us had any intention of going back to the flat that night.
Who would choose to spend the evening listening to parents shout at each other without end? Not us, that was certain. We strode straight toward the next entrance where Oma Catharina lived. Her place had turned into our safe haven over time. We used to drop by only on weekends, but lately we ended up staying almost every night.
Things at home had grown impossible to bear. Our parents seemed to have forgotten the rest of the world and kept yelling at one another without pause. The worst part was how they pulled us into their arguments more and more.
Our mother would spin toward Lieke and demand answers. “Tell me I am right. You agree with me, right?”
Our father would cut in before anyone could reply and turn to me. “No, I am the one who is right here. Confirm it!”
Lieke and I said nothing. We had no wish to pick sides or get dragged into the endless clash. All we wanted was quiet, calm, and some warmth, the kind we found at our grandmother’s.
These outbursts happened day after day, like a tune stuck on repeat that no one dared to switch off. We had learned to read the small signs that trouble was coming. A certain tone, a sharp movement, the way they looked at each other, all of it told us it was time to go. What child wants to live with that constant pressure, where any talk can explode into a shouting match in seconds?
We could never work out what had set off this mess in the first place. Our family had never been perfect like something from an advertisement, yet our parents used to know how to settle things. Fights happened now and then, but they ended with steady conversations instead of raised voices. Mom might look cross, Dad might speak a little louder, but within half an hour it would be over. We would all sit together, drink coffee, and plan what to do on the weekend.
Then, about two years back, everything shifted. It felt as if someone had quietly replaced our old parents with new ones who found fault in the tiniest details. A mug left dirty on the table became a long speech about carelessness and lack of respect. A shirt put on the wrong hook turned into cutting remarks about keeping order. A spoon left in the sink was treated like a serious offense that needed minutes of debate.
One evening Lieke sat in Oma Catharina’s kitchen, stirring her coffee without thinking. She stayed quiet for a while, watching the brown swirls, then asked with real pain in her voice, “How did it get like this, Grandma? Everything changed after their holiday together. What happened there?”
Oma Catharina paused with her cup halfway to her mouth, set it down on the saucer, and ran her hand gently over Lieke’s arm. She only had guesses about the trouble at home, and those guesses brought her no joy.
“Adults sort these things out themselves,” she answered softly, keeping her voice steady. “Sometimes people need time to see the best way forward.”
Lieke nodded, yet her eyes showed she did not fully believe it. She sensed our grandmother was holding something back, but she let it drop. What was the use? While they still saw us as children, nothing important would be shared.
“We cannot stand the shouting anymore!” I burst out. “I cannot finish my homework or even read in peace. I cannot remember the last time we all ate together. If living together is so hard for them, they should just split up. It would be better for everyone.”
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, but they held the truth of those months. I spoke for both of us, because I knew my sister felt the same. Our home had lost all peace long ago. Mom would snap something, Dad would answer with irritation, and another row would start with nowhere to escape.
“Thijs,” Oma Catharina said, sounding startled. She put her knitting aside, studied me closely, and slowly shook her head. “Have you thought about what a divorce would mean? You two would be separated. Are you ready to live apart from Lieke?”
“We will live with you,” Lieke said at once, her eyes pleading. “We are here nearly all the time already. You do not mind, do you?”
Oma Catharina went still. She understood how worn down we felt and how tired we had grown of the constant fights. On one side, we would be safe in her calm home, able to study without noise, read in quiet, and feel looked after. She loved us deeply and was ready to give us that care.
On the other side stood our parents. How could we explain that we no longer wanted to stay at home? Would they accept it? If they did, how would it change the way they saw us? Might this choice end up cutting us off from them completely?
“Let us not decide in a hurry,” she said after a long breath. “You know I am always glad to have you here. But first we should speak with your mother and father. Perhaps together we can find a way to put things right.”
“Do not worry, we will talk to them,” Lieke said with confidence, smiling as if the hardest part was already settled. “Just promise you will not turn us away. We truly cannot stay there any longer. It would be better for them to live apart, or one day they might actually harm each other. I saw Dad raise his hand toward Mom yesterday. He did not hit her, I swear, but he came close.”
Lieke stopped, thinking back to that moment. She had gone into the kitchen for water and frozen in the doorway. Dad stood turned halfway toward Mom, his arm jerking upward, while Mom ducked without thinking. He lowered it a second later, yet that second had felt endless to her.
“Grandma, please say yes,” I urged, moving closer and taking her hand as if she might still refuse. “We will help with everything in the house. Just do not send us back. They barely notice us at all. Yesterday I told Dad about the parent-teacher meeting. Do you know what he said? ‘Ask your mother.’ So I did. Can you guess what she told me?”
“Ask your father?” Oma Catharina asked quietly, already sure of the reply.
“Exactly,” I said with a short, bitter laugh. “Then they argued for two hours about who should attend. They sat in separate rooms and shouted down the hallway. I just stood there and listened.”
“I asked them to sign the form for the school trip to the museum,” Lieke added, staring at the floor. Her fingers kept twisting the edge of her sleeve. “Now I am the only one in my class who cannot go. Neither of them signed it. Instead they started fighting again. Mom yelled that it was Dad’s job, and Dad insisted she should handle school matters.”
Oma Catharina watched us and saw the deep exhaustion in our faces. It was not ordinary tiredness. It had built up over months of days that all felt the same, filled with arguments instead of warmth and indifference instead of care.
“It is always the same,” I said, letting my shoulders drop. My voice sounded worn, as though I had repeated the words many times already. “Any request we make turns into a fresh fight. We do not even want to come home. A few nights ago we got back at eleven and they did not scold us at all. They simply sent us to bed without asking where we had been. Later they spent ages blaming each other for raising us badly.”
Lieke and I sighed together once more. In the past few months we had seriously wondered whether divorce was the only escape. Yet the thought of being split from each other frightened us. One of us would end up with Mom, the other with Dad, and the closeness we had always known would shrink to occasional weekend visits.
We talked over the possibilities in low voices in our room when we were alone. Once I joked about running away, just packing bags and heading wherever the road led. I said it with a grin to ease the mood, but Lieke took it to heart. Her eyes brightened for a moment before she said softly, “What if we really did leave, even for a couple of days?” In that instant we both saw how unbearable things had become, so much that the idea of running did not feel mad anymore.
Then the thought struck us both at the same time: Grandma. Why not ask to move in with her? Lieke spoke first. “Let us ask Grandma if we can live here. She never yells or argues. We would not have to listen to those fights anymore.” I jumped in right away. “Yes! She is kind and always backs us up. Her place is big enough for all of us.”
We began to picture a different life. Quiet breakfasts, homework done in peace, evenings spent playing board games with Oma Catharina. No shouting, no blame, no need to hide away to stay out of the line of fire. Hope stirred inside us for the first time in ages. Let our parents work out their own troubles while we finally found some rest. That was what we imagined as we thought about living with Grandma.
“Mom, Dad, we need to have a serious talk,” we said together, standing in front of them in the living room. We had waited until both were home and walked in with purpose. Lieke kept a tight hold on my hand to steady herself. “First, though, you have to promise to listen all the way through before you say anything.”
Michiel set his phone down and looked up, surprised. Annelies, who had been sorting clothes on the sofa, sat up straight. Her expression suggested we had said something impossible.
“This is all your doing,” she snapped, folding her arms. “The children are giving us orders now, as if we owe them an explanation.”
“And who are you to complain,” Michiel shot back at once, pushing his phone aside. “I am always working to keep this family going. You have been home with them the whole time. What exactly did you teach them that they think they can boss us around?”
We glanced at each other. We had expected the talk to slide straight into the usual blame game. Still, we could not turn back.
“Stop it,” Lieke cried, her voice close to breaking. She moved forward, trying to sound clear and steady even though her hands were shaking. “Thijs and I have decided you should get a divorce.”
The room fell silent at once. Annelies sat with her mouth open, while Michiel rose slowly from the sofa.
“That is quite the announcement,” our mother said in a warning tone. “Lieke, you are far too young to tell grown-ups how to run their lives. And what else have you two decided? Shall we split the flat as well while we are at it?”
“If you do not divorce, we will contact child protection,” I said, squeezing Lieke’s hand for courage. My voice stayed firm even though part of me could hardly believe I was saying it. “Then, Dad, you could lose your job. Your company does not look kindly on scandals, does it? You told us yourself that reputation matters more than anything.”
“And you, Mom,” Lieke went on, meeting her eyes directly, “will stop getting any respect from the neighbors. They will not even speak to you. Everyone already hears you shouting, and we can add more details if we have to.”
“They are threatening us. Look at them,” Annelies managed at last, her gaze moving between us. “These are our own children. How can you speak to us this way?”
“We are not threatening anyone,” I answered quietly but without wavering. “We simply want you to see that we cannot go on like this. We are exhausted. Exhausted from the shouting, from being ignored, from every small request turning into a battle.”
“You will divorce and move apart, and we will live with Oma Catharina,” we said together, the way we had practiced. “It will be better for all of us. We get peace, you get an end to the fights. We do not want to stand between you any longer.”
Our parents stayed frozen. For once they had no quick reply. Normally they would have started arguing and cutting each other off, hunting for someone to blame. Now both seemed unable to speak.
Their thirteen-year-old children were acting in a way they had never seen. Lieke and I stood side by side, hands linked, facing them with steady looks and no trace of our usual hesitation. We were speaking about matters the adults had tried to avoid.
They had considered divorce themselves more than once. What always held them back was the question of where we would go. Splitting twins felt unthinkable. We had always been close, doing everything together and looking out for one another. They could not picture separating us into different homes with only weekend visits.
The idea of us living with Oma Catharina had never crossed their minds before. They had been too caught up in their own hurts and complaints. Hearing our suggestion now made them pause. What if this was the answer? She loved us, her flat was roomy, and she was always pleased to see us. Perhaps it would ease at least some of the strain.
“I will call my mother,” Michiel said at last through clenched teeth. His words came out thick, as though they cost him effort. “If she agrees…”
He did not finish. Annelies broke in, and the weariness in her voice surprised even her.
“Then we can finally stop hurting each other. Call her. I will be glad not to see your face every single day.”
Her words lingered in the air. She had not meant to sound so sharp, yet years of stored-up pain had pushed them out.
“And I will be just as glad,” Michiel answered, covering the sting with a wry tone.
There was no anger in his voice, only a tired smile at what their life together had become. He pulled out his phone and slowly dialed. While the line rang, both of them looked away from each other. They did not yet know where the call would lead, but they sensed a line had been crossed.
That day the Van Dijk family reached a turning point. It began with a long talk between Michiel and his mother. Oma Catharina listened closely, asking only a few questions now and then.
When he had finished explaining everything, a silence fell. Grandma drew 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 will look after them.”
By evening the couple sat in the kitchen together, something they had not done in a long time without raised voices or blame. They faced each other and went over the details. Little by little they reached the same conclusion: divorce was the only sensible step. We would move in with Oma Catharina, and they would send her money each month for our care.
Neither of them planned to walk away from us. Both promised to visit on weekends, though on separate days so they would not cross paths.
“I will come on Saturday mornings to take them out, and you can come on Sundays,” Michiel said wearily. Annelies nodded in agreement. “It will be simpler that way. The important thing is that the children do not feel left behind.”
Their goal was to keep contact to a minimum and avoid fresh arguments. They agreed not to speak badly of each other in front of us, not to pull us into their side, and not to settle scores while we were around.
“We are still their parents,” Michiel said. “We need to stay that way even if we are no longer married.”
Time proved the choice was the right one. Lieke and I could finally relax and live like ordinary teenagers. She joined an art club she had wanted to try for ages but had never found the time for because of the constant worry at home. I started playing football and made new friends on the team. We began spending time together again, walking through the city, going to the cinema, talking about school without fearing that a fight would break out at any moment.
Our schoolwork also steadied. We had a quiet spot to study now, with no shouting to pull us away. Homework got done without tension, and our marks improved right away. Teachers noticed. “You have become so focused, you two. Keep going like that.”
Life settled into a steadier pattern, not perfect but calm and steady. 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 have found some solid ground in a difficult time.
Five years later, life for the Van Dijk family moved along at a steady, quiet pace. Lieke and I had grown used to the new rhythm of school, clubs, time with friends, and warm evenings at Oma Catharina’s. Our parents still came on different days, each bringing small gifts and attention but without the old complaints. Over the years they had learned to speak to each other with restraint and politeness, without the sudden flare-ups.
The first time the former couple met face to face happened at our graduation celebration. The school held a formal evening, and both parents attended. They kept their distance at first, sitting far apart in the hall, but as the night went on the tension eased.
When the dancing began, Michiel walked over to Annelies and asked, “Would you like to dance? For old times’ sake.”
She waited a moment, then nodded.
After the event they sat outside in the schoolyard for a long while, watching the graduates laughing by the fountain. The conversation started on its own, first about us, then about their shared past.
They spoke for hours that night, remembering the good parts of their marriage and behaving with dignity. They focused on what had once brought them together rather than old wounds. From a distance Lieke and I watched and felt a quiet happiness. It still hurt to see the two people closest to us treating each other like strangers.
Then, the very next day, they invited us to a café. Over coffee they looked at each other, joined hands, and Michiel announced with a broad smile, “Kids, your mother and I have decided to marry again. These years apart have shown us that our feelings never disappeared. We still love each other and want to be a family once more.”
He sounded genuinely pleased, as though sharing the best news possible. Annelies smiled brightly, clearly hoping for an excited response.
We looked at each other, and our faces fell. Lieke’s eyes showed doubt while I tightened my fists under the table. Not this again. What were they thinking? Could they really share a home without the old fights returning?
“Are you serious?” was all Lieke could say.
“Completely,” Michiel answered with confidence. “We have both changed. We have learned to listen. We want to give our family another chance.”
We stayed silent. Inside, our feelings pulled in opposite directions. Part of us wanted to believe they had truly changed, yet another part feared repeating the pain we had already lived through.
We did not try to stop them. We offered no comment at all, which hurt our parents deeply. Annelies stared at us in confusion.
“Are you not happy? We thought you would be glad for us.”
We only glanced at each other and lifted our shoulders. What could we say without sounding heartless? The words would not come. We did not want to appear cold, yet we could not pretend to be thrilled either.
The rest of the visit felt strained. Our parents spoke of their plans while we nodded politely, our thoughts elsewhere. On the way home Lieke said quietly to me, “I hope they know what they are doing.”
I could only sigh.
“So we are heading to Amsterdam?” Lieke asked as she opened her laptop and started checking university pages. “Far enough from all this chaos. I can already picture how this whole mess will play out.”
“Of course we are,” I replied firmly, and my voice carried a tiredness beyond my years. I pushed a hand through my hair as though trying to clear the weight of the past months. “They might manage a month or two of peace at most. Then it will start again, the shouting, the doors slamming, the accusations. I refuse to stay trapped in their relationship any longer. I do not want to wake up every morning wondering what mood they are in or which one of us will catch the next round of blame.”
I got up and walked the room, gathering scattered books without really thinking. The same question kept turning in my mind. Why do adults, who ought to show wisdom and steadiness, behave like restless teenagers? Why do they keep making the same mistakes instead of fixing what is broken?
“We have to go,” I repeated, pausing at the window. Outside the light was fading, turning the city a soft orange. I stared out, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. “Far away. Far enough that their fights cannot reach us. Let them deal with their own problems. We are not their counselors, their go-betweens, or their punching bags anymore. We have our own lives and dreams, and I will not let another cycle of their madness destroy them.”
“When are we sending the applications?” Lieke asked calmly.
“Tomorrow,” I said without pause. “So we cannot change our minds later.”
She nodded without looking away from the screen. Pages from Amsterdam universities scrolled past. For a week she had been reading through study programs, dormitory options, and job chances after graduation. Her notebook beside the laptop held growing lists of pros and cons for each choice, required papers, deadlines, and contact details for the admissions offices.
“The main thing is to study without their arguments pulling us in,” she said softly, as if wrapping up her own thoughts. “It is good we will be this far away.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, sitting down next to her. I tilted my head to read the screen. “And when they start blaming each other again we will not hear a word. Let them call and complain and try to drag us into family meetings. We are done taking part. Their wish to give the relationship another try,” I added with a short laugh, “is their decision, not ours.”
Annelies and Michiel went through with the second wedding after all. They chose a simple ceremony at the city hall and a small dinner with only close family and a few friends. They wanted to avoid extra costs and attention, and they did not feel the need for anything large.
In the photographs from that day they looked genuinely content. They smiled, held hands, and gazed at each other with warmth. You could see their fingers linked, gentle looks, and small touches. It seemed as though every past hurt had been set aside, the years apart had helped, and they now knew what they wanted with only good things ahead. Looking at those pictures, we could not help wondering whether this time things might truly be different.
But they were not. The first weeks after the wedding stayed surprisingly calm. They tried to be kinder, thanked each other more often, and let small things pass. Before long, though, the old patterns returned. Within a month raised voices filled their flat again. At first they were quiet but pointed remarks. “Did you not clean up after yourself again?” “Why did you not tell me you would be late?” “You could have helped since you were home.”
Soon open fights broke out. They argued over nothing important. Someone left towels wet in the bathroom. Someone forgot bread. Someone turned the television up too high. Words grew sharper, voices louder, and the gaps between arguments shorter.
After two months, just as I had expected, things reached a breaking point. One evening a disagreement over who should buy groceries turned violent. Michiel, losing control, hurled a cup against the wall. It shattered loudly, pieces scattering across the floor. Annelies, equally furious, grabbed a plate and smashed it down. The sound of breaking crockery rang through the flat.
After scenes like that they always tried to reach us by phone. Each call began the same way. One of them would dial while still short of breath and pour out every fresh grievance.
“Can you believe what he said today?” our mother would cry when Lieke answered. “He does not even try to understand me.”
“Son, you have to see my side. She cannot control herself at all,” our father would tell me in an agitated voice. “I am trying, I truly am, but she looks for any excuse.”
Lieke and I had learned to cut these calls short with calm firmness. We no longer let ourselves be pulled into long debates or attempts to decide who was right. Our answers stayed short and clear.
“Mom, I am in a lecture right now. I will call you back later,” Lieke would say evenly, checking the time even if she had a few minutes to spare. She simply did not want to hear another long complaint.
“Dad, I have work that cannot wait. We can talk about it on the weekend,” I would answer, keeping my eyes on my screen. I knew that letting a parent talk would stretch the call into an hour and then leave me calming them down afterward.
“Later” and “on the weekend” always got delayed. We used studies, part-time jobs, and time with friends as reasons, and gradually the calls grew rarer. We felt no guilt. We were simply guarding our own peace and time, knowing we could not change what went on between our parents.
We really did have lives of our own now, full and purposeful, well away from their dramas. Every day was shaped by our own concerns, interests, and plans instead of waiting for the next explosion next door.
Lieke threw herself into psychology. She enjoyed learning how the mind works, why people behave as they do, and how to help those facing hard times. In her third year she began volunteering at a center for teenagers from difficult homes. She ran group sessions there, helped the young people put their feelings into words, and guided them toward solutions. She recognized pieces of her own story in them and tried to offer the attention and support she had once missed.
I found my place in IT. From the start I was drawn to programming, fascinated by the way code worked, the chance to build systems that actually ran, and the challenge of solving tough technical problems. I spent hours at the computer, picked up new languages, and joined student competitions. In my fourth year my team placed third in a regional contest for mobile app development. That gave me real confidence and confirmed I was on the right track. I took a part-time job at a small IT firm and quickly showed I could be trusted. Working on actual projects taught me how to work with others, manage my time, and handle unexpected situations.
We started making plans for the future without letting our parents’ fights shape them. Lieke hoped to open her own practice one day and help families communicate better. I thought about starting my own company. We talked through ideas over coffee in cafés, sketched plans, and wrote notes in our books. In those moments we felt we had something solid to stand on, a direction, and a life that was truly ours.
When our parents tried once more to pull us into their troubles, calling in tears and describing how badly things were going, we answered with the same calm resolve. We had already decided how we would handle such calls so we would not slip back into the old role of mediators.
“That is enough, dear parents. Work it out between yourselves,” Lieke said firmly. “You have your life and we have ours.”
“But you are our children,” our mother sobbed. “You should support us.”
“If you acted like adults instead of children, we would support you,” I answered at once. “You made a mistake remarrying and you keep hurting each other. You cannot live together without fighting, so why keep torturing one another? Get divorced and live apart.”
The words may have sounded harsh, yet my sister and I simply wanted to live in peace.
