Home is supposed to be a place of warmth, of comfort—a safe haven where love surrounds you like a familiar hug. For an eight-year-old girl, it is her whole world, a space where bedtime stories and goodnight kisses create the illusion that everything is perfect.
But sometimes, that illusion cracks.
When parents argue, it doesn’t just happen between them. Their words, their anger, their frustration—whether they realize it or not—spills over, wrapping itself around the child caught in between.
This is the story of what it feels like to be stuck in the middle.
The Weight of Words Not Meant for Me
Maybe it’s about the dishes left in the sink, or the laundry that wasn’t folded. Maybe it’s about something bigger, something unseen but felt in the weight of their voices.
At first, I pretend it doesn’t matter. I sit quietly in my room, hugging my stuffed animal tight, trying to drown out the rising voices in the other room. But the harder I try to ignore it, the louder it gets.
Then, the walls don’t feel thick enough, and the house doesn’t feel as safe.
My stomach starts to hurt, my heart beats faster, and suddenly, I’m afraid. Not afraid of them, but afraid for them—for us. Because I love them both. And when they argue, it feels like the whole world is tilting beneath my feet, like I’m losing something I don’t know how to get back.
I want to make it better.
I want to say something that will bring back the laughter, the warmth, the way things used to be. So, one night, as their argument fills the space between us, I gather the courage to speak.
"Mom, Dad, maybe… maybe you could both try to understand each other?"
For a second, I think I’ve done something good. The yelling stops. There’s silence. Maybe they’ll look at each other and remember why they love each other. Maybe they’ll smile, hug, and tell me I’m right.
But that’s not what happens.
Instead, Mom’s eyes fill with tears, and her voice turns soft but firm. “Sweetie, you don’t understand. You’re too young to see the bigger picture.”
Dad sighs. “You don’t get it, honey. Sometimes things just aren’t that simple.”
And just like that, the weight of their argument shifts onto me.
I wasn’t trying to choose a side. I just wanted them to be happy again. But now, instead of being mad at each other, they’re upset with me.
"Stop, please. You’re not helping," Mom says.
And the floor beneath me seems to vanish.
The Silence That FollowsBut I feel it—the weight of what wasn’t said, the tension in the air that lingers like an unspoken truth.
I try not to think about it, but it follows me, a question that won’t leave my mind. So, when I get home from school and see Dad sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, I take a deep breath and ask:
"Dad, when you and Mom argue, why do you both think you’re right? Why can’t you just be happy again?"
He looks at me for a long moment before answering, his voice tired. “We both want to be right, sweetie. We both love you. But sometimes we forget to listen to each other.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “But you don’t listen to me either.”
His face changes, and for a moment, he looks like he might cry. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never meant to make you feel like you’re stuck in the middle.”
But I am stuck.
No matter what I do, no matter what I say, I can’t fix this. I can’t make them see each other the way I see them—two people who love so fiercely yet somehow keep hurting each other in the process.
Holding on to What’s Left
"I love you, Mom."
She strokes my hair, kissing my forehead. “I love you too, sweetie.”
And when Dad reads me a story, I don’t ask him any more questions. I just listen to his voice, letting it wash over me like a lullaby.
Because in this moment—just for a little while—it feels like everything is okay again.
Even if deep down, I know that nothing will ever be the same.
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