What Happens If My Parents Split Up? A Childhood Fear That Never Left

“Are you coming with us tonight, Matt?” Tyler’s voice cut through the muggy spring air, and I blinked against the glare of sun reflecting off the sidewalk. Jake grinned, elbowing me. “Yeah, man, you gotta see the new trail we found in the park. It’s sick.”

But my stomach was in knots, and I could barely hear them. Just twenty minutes ago, I’d overheard Mom and Dad fighting again. Not the usual low-voiced arguments, but sharp, stinging words that made the walls tremble. And there was that one word—divorce—flung like a grenade. It echoed in my head and squeezed my chest until I thought I might throw up right there in front of my friends.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I gotta check with my mom.”

Jake groaned. “Man, you’re always bailing now.”

I shrugged again, trying to keep my face blank. I couldn’t tell them what was happening at home. They wouldn’t get it. Their parents were always at the games, always smiling in the stands, always together.

I trudged up the cracked steps to our apartment. The hallway smelled like burnt toast and old carpet. I could hear Mom’s muffled crying behind our door. I hesitated, hand on the knob, my heart hammering. I wanted to run away, to just keep riding my bike until I disappeared.

Inside, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Dad’s jacket was gone from the hook. She didn’t look up when I came in.

“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She wiped her face quickly, forcing a smile. “Hey, honey. Did you have a good day?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Are you and Dad… are you really gonna get a divorce?”

She flinched, like I’d slapped her. “Oh, Matt…” she started, then stopped, her lips trembling. “We’re… we’re trying to figure things out. But it’s not your fault, okay? It’s never your fault.”

I wanted to believe her. But I couldn’t help thinking maybe if I’d gotten better grades, or if I hadn’t broken that window last summer, or if I didn’t fight with my little sister so much, maybe things would be different.

Everything changed after that day. Dad started staying at his friend’s place more often. Mom got quiet and tired. My little sister, Emily, started wetting the bed again. At school, I snapped at Jake and Tyler, and I stopped answering texts. I hated how everyone else’s life seemed so normal, so easy.

One night, I heard Dad come in late. I lay in bed, clutching my pillow, listening to their voices drift down the hall. It was always the same argument: money, bills, the way they talked to each other. Then Dad’s voice got quiet, almost defeated. “Maybe this is just how it ends, Laura.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch the wall, to do something, anything, to stop it. But I just lay there, silent, feeling like I was shrinking smaller and smaller, until I’d disappear entirely.

After Dad officially moved out, everything got worse. Emily cried all the time. Mom started working double shifts at the hospital, so I made dinner most nights – usually Kraft mac and cheese, sometimes just cereal. I missed baseball tryouts because I had to watch Emily. The only time I saw Dad was every other weekend, and even then he seemed distracted, always checking his phone, talking about his new apartment, his new life.

One Saturday, he picked us up in his old Ford. Emily clung to me the whole ride, her thumb in her mouth. Dad tried to make small talk. “So, Matt, you still playing ball?”

I shrugged. “Didn’t make the team.”

He frowned. “You always loved baseball.”

I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to say, ‘I missed tryouts because you left.’ But I didn’t. I just stared out the window at the blurred trees and tried not to cry.

That summer, I stopped hanging out with Jake and Tyler. They tried, but I pushed them away. I didn’t want them to see how screwed up my life was. I spent most of my time at home, watching over Emily, listening to Mom cry behind her bedroom door. I started skipping homework, my grades dropped. My teachers called home, but Mom barely had time to answer the phone.

One afternoon, I came home to find Mom sitting at the table with a stack of bills, her hands shaking. She looked up at me, her eyes red. “Matt, I need you to start picking Emily up from daycare. I can’t get off work early anymore.”

I nodded. What else could I do? I was fourteen, but I felt forty. Responsibility pressed on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.

The next year was a blur of empty fridge shelves, late-night arguments, and missed birthdays. We moved to a smaller apartment. Dad got a new girlfriend. Emily started calling her by her first name, and I hated her for it. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

One night, after Mom and Emily had gone to bed, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my reflection in the window. I thought about running away. About disappearing. About how none of this was fair. Why did my family have to fall apart? Why did I have to grow up overnight?

But I didn’t run. I stayed. Because Emily needed me, and Mom needed me, even if she didn’t say it. I started working part-time at the grocery store after school. I saved every dollar for college, for a way out.

Sometimes, now that I’m older, I wonder if I ever really healed from that day. If any of us did. I still flinch when people argue. I still don’t like to talk about my family. But I’m here. I made it.

What would you have done if you were me? Does anyone ever really get over the fear of losing the people they love most?