Between Two Fires: How I Found Strength to Choose Between My Parents

“You have to decide, Emily. You can’t live in two places at once.”

My mother’s voice trembled as she stood in the doorway of my childhood bedroom. The walls, once covered in crayon drawings and posters of pop stars, now echoed with the heavy silence of a family breaking apart. I sat on my bed, knees pulled to my chest, clutching the cross necklace Grandma had given me for my thirteenth birthday.

Dad’s suitcase was already by the front door. He paced the hallway, his footsteps heavy and uneven. I could hear him muttering to himself, the words muffled but sharp with pain.

I was sixteen. Old enough, they said, to choose where I wanted to live. Old enough to break my own heart.

—

The night before, I’d heard them fighting again. Their voices rose and fell like a storm battering the windows. Dad accused Mom of never listening; Mom accused Dad of always running away. I pressed my pillow over my ears, but nothing could block out the sound of love unraveling.

At school, I tried to pretend everything was normal. But my best friend, Sarah, saw right through me.

“Em, you look like you haven’t slept in days,” she whispered during math class.

I shrugged. “Just family stuff.”

She squeezed my hand under the desk. “You can talk to me.”

But how could I explain that my world was splitting in two? That every night I prayed for a miracle, and every morning woke up to the same nightmare?

—

The day they told me I had to choose, it was raining. The kind of cold, relentless rain that soaks through your bones. Mom sat on one side of the kitchen table, Dad on the other. Their faces were drawn tight with exhaustion and regret.

“Emily,” Dad said softly, “we both love you. No matter what.”

Mom reached for my hand. “But we can’t keep fighting over you. It’s not fair.”

I stared at the chipped mug in front of me, tracing the cracks with my finger. My voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I don’t want to choose.”

Tears welled up in Mom’s eyes. Dad looked away.

—

That night, I locked myself in my room and fell to my knees beside the bed. The cross necklace felt cool against my skin as I pressed it to my lips.

“God,” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do. Please help me.”

I cried until there were no tears left. Then I just lay there, listening to the rain and the distant sound of Dad’s car starting as he drove away for the night.

—

The days blurred together after that. Mom tried to act cheerful—making pancakes for breakfast, humming along to old country songs—but her eyes were always red-rimmed. Dad called every night, his voice brittle with longing.

“Hey, kiddo. How was school?”

“Fine.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

I felt like a rope being pulled from both ends—fraying, unraveling.

One afternoon, Sarah found me sitting alone on the bleachers after soccer practice.

“You can’t keep carrying this by yourself,” she said gently.

I broke down then—sobbing into her shoulder as she held me tight.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “What if I make the wrong choice?”

She wiped my tears away. “Whatever you decide, it’s not your fault. You’re not responsible for their happiness.”

—

That night, I prayed again—harder than ever before.

“God, give me strength. Show me what’s right.”

A strange calm washed over me—a sense that maybe, just maybe, I could survive this.

—

The next morning, I found Mom sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee clutched in her hands.

“Mom,” I said quietly, “I think I want to live with Dad for a while.”

Her face crumpled. For a moment, I thought she might scream or beg me to stay. But instead, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“I love you,” she whispered. “No matter what.”

I moved into Dad’s apartment that weekend. It was small and smelled faintly of old pizza and aftershave. We ate takeout on the couch and watched reruns of Friends until we both fell asleep.

But nothing felt right. Not really.

—

Mom called every day—sometimes just to say goodnight, sometimes just to hear my voice.

“Are you eating enough?” she’d ask.

“Yeah.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

But what I needed most was something neither of them could give me: a whole family again.

—

Thanksgiving came around faster than I expected. Dad tried to make it special—he even attempted a turkey (it came out dry and slightly burnt). We laughed about it, but there was an ache behind our smiles.

After dinner, I slipped outside and called Mom.

“I miss you,” I said softly.

“I miss you too, baby.”

The silence between us was heavy with everything we couldn’t say.

—

Christmas was even harder. Dad bought a tiny fake tree and strung up some lights in the window. We opened presents together—socks and books and a new phone case—but it all felt hollow without Mom’s laughter filling the room.

That night, as snow fell softly outside, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Was this what growing up meant? Choosing sides? Losing pieces of yourself?

—

One evening in January, Dad came home late from work. He found me sitting at the kitchen table with my textbooks spread out but untouched.

He sat down across from me and sighed.

“Emily,” he said quietly, “I know this isn’t easy for you. If you want to go back to your mom’s… it’s okay.”

I looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in weeks. He seemed smaller somehow; tired and lonely.

“I just want you to be happy,” he said softly.

Tears stung my eyes as I realized how much he was hurting too.

—

That night, I prayed again—not for answers this time, but for peace.

“Help me forgive them,” I whispered into the darkness. “Help me forgive myself.”

—

In February, Mom invited us both over for dinner—her idea of a fresh start. The three of us sat around the table eating spaghetti and garlic bread like nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

After dinner, Mom hugged Dad goodbye at the door—a brief, awkward embrace that spoke volumes.

As Dad drove me back to his apartment, he glanced over at me.

“You know,” he said quietly, “no matter where you live or what happens between your mom and me… we’ll always love you.”

I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks.

“I know.”

—

The months passed slowly after that—some days better than others. I split my time between both homes; learned to pack light and keep an extra toothbrush in each bathroom.

It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but somehow we found a new rhythm. Mom started dating someone new; Dad took up woodworking in his spare time. And me? I learned that families can break and still find ways to mend.

Sometimes at night, when the world feels too heavy, I still clutch that cross necklace and whisper a prayer for strength—for all of us.

Because forgiveness isn’t a one-time thing—it’s something you choose every day.

And maybe that’s what faith really is: believing that even when everything falls apart, love can still find a way through the cracks.

Based on a true story.