For as long as I can remember, home has been a battlefield. Not in the obvious, dramatic sense where plates are thrown, or voices roar like thunder. No, my battlefield was silent most days, filled with long, cold stares, words that cut sharper than knives, and an ever-present feeling that no matter what I did, I was never enough.

I wanted to leave. I needed to leave. And yet, my heart was still with them.

Growing up, love came with conditions. Praise was rare, doled out in small, measured doses that felt more like currency than affection. “You did well on your exam? Good. But don’t get cocky.” “You cleaned the house? About time you started pulling your weight.” I learned early that love in my home wasn’t unconditional; it was something to be earned, and even when I thought I had, it could be ripped away at any moment.

I spent years convincing myself that this was normal. Parents were supposed to be strict. They were supposed to push you. They were supposed to make you stronger, weren’t they? But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. I had seen other families—friends who could sit with their parents and talk without fear, whose homes weren’t war zones but sanctuaries. I wanted that. I craved that.

And yet, every time I thought about leaving, my chest tightened. Because for all their faults, they were still my parents.

My breaking point came on a cold winter evening. I had just gotten home from work, exhausted, and barely set my bag down before my father’s voice filled the room.

“You think you can just come and go whenever you want? You don’t contribute enough. You act like a guest in this house.”

I wanted to tell him that I had been working extra shifts to save money to leave, that I was exhausted from juggling responsibilities he never noticed. But I knew better than to argue.

My mother sat in the corner, scrolling through her phone, uninterested. She rarely spoke up. When she did, it was only to remind me that no one would take care of me out there, that the world was cruel, that I had it “good” here.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I made my decision. I would leave.

The next few weeks were a blur. I started looking for places, reaching out to friends, figuring out what I could afford. Every time I felt guilty, I reminded myself of the nights I spent crying, the days I spent trying to prove my worth to people who only saw my flaws.

Then, one evening, I packed my things.

I didn’t make a big announcement. I didn’t want to fight. I left a note, short and simple: I love you, but I have to go.

As I walked out the door, I expected relief. Instead, I felt something else—grief. Because no matter how much they had hurt me, they were still my parents. And I still loved them.

The first few weeks on my own were hard. I had never realized how much I had relied on them, even in a dysfunctional way. But slowly, I started to build my own life. I decorated my tiny apartment the way I wanted. I bought food that no one would criticize. I made friends who cared about me without conditions.

One night, months after I left, my phone rang. It was my mother.

“Are you eating? Do you need anything?” she asked, her voice softer than I remembered.

I hesitated, unsure if this was a trap. “I’m okay, Mom.”

A long pause. “Okay. Just… take care of yourself.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a grand gesture. But it was something. And for now, that was enough.

I don’t know if my parents will ever truly change. But I do know this: I have changed. I have learned that love doesn’t mean enduring pain. That sometimes, the best way to love someone is from a distance. And that leaving doesn’t mean I don’t care—it means I finally care about myself.

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