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What the hell is wrong with you this time?! How long can this go on?! Im completely fed up with it all! The womans raised voice carried from behind the apartment door, echoing through the whole stairwell so everyone could hear.

At that exact moment my sister Zuzanna and I were coming up the stairs. We stopped dead in our tracks, as if wed run into a solid wall. Our eyes met for a second and no words were necessary. We understood each other perfectly: it was better to turn back right now. We both let out a heavy breath, spun around, and slipped away from the building without a sound. Neither of us had any intention of going home that evening.

Who in their right mind would sit through another night of nonstop parental shouting? Certainly not us. We walked straight to the next entrance where our babcia Zofia lived. Her place had turned into our real shelter lately. What used to be weekend visits had become almost nightly escapes.

Life at our parents had become impossible to bear. They screamed at each other nonstop, completely forgetting we existed. The worst part was how they kept trying to pull us into every fight.

Our mother would spin toward Zuzanna and demand, Tell me Im right. You agree with me, dont you?

Our father would cut in without waiting and turn to me, No, Im the one whos right here. Back me up!

Zuzanna and I said nothing. We refused to pick sides or get dragged into their endless war. All we wanted was quiet, peace, and a bit of warmththe things we only found at babcias.

These scenes played out every single day, like a scratched record nobody would lift the needle on. We had learned to read the warning signs from the tiniest clues: the pitch of a voice, the way someone slammed a drawer, the quick glances between them. Those were our signals to disappear. No child wants to live in a house where every conversation can explode into shouting at any moment.

We never figured out what had broken our family. Things had never been perfect like in commercials, but our parents used to talk things through. Arguments happened, sure, but they ended with normal conversations. Mother might look annoyed, father might speak a little louder, yet within half an hour everything was settled. Wed sit down together again, drink tea, and plan the weekend.

Roughly two years earlier everything shifted. It felt as if someone had swapped our real parents for different people who could turn the smallest things into battlegrounds. A dirty cup left on the table? A long lecture about carelessness and disrespect. A shirt hung on the wrong hook? Sharp comments about how the house was falling apart. A spoon left in the sink? Treated like a major offense that needed a full investigation.

One evening Zuzanna sat at babcia Zofias kitchen table, stirring her tea without really seeing it. She watched the tea leaves swirl for a long time before she finally spoke with real pain in her voice.

How did it get this bad, babcia? Everything fell apart after their vacation together. What actually happened there?

Babcia Zofia set her cup down carefully and rested her hand on Zuzannas arm for a moment. She only had guesses about the reasons, and those guesses brought her no comfort.

Grown-ups have to sort their own problems, she answered gently, keeping her voice steady. Sometimes people need time to decide whats best.

Zuzanna nodded, but the doubt stayed in her eyes. She knew babcia was holding something back, yet she didnt press. What would be the point? As long as we were still seen as children, no one would tell us anything important.

We cant stand the constant yelling anymore! I burst out. We cant even do homework or read in peace. I cant remember the last time we all sat down for a meal together. If being together is this hard for them, they should just divorce and stop torturing everyone!

The words came out before I could stop them, but they were the plain truth of the past months. I spoke for both of usI knew Zuzanna felt exactly the same. Silence had disappeared from our home long ago. Mother would snap, father would answer sharply, and another fight would start with nowhere to hide.

Mateusz Babcia Zofia looked shaken. She put her knitting aside, studied my face, and slowly shook her head. Have you thought about what happens if they split up? You two would be divided. Are you ready to live apart from your sister?

Well stay with you! Zuzanna said at once, her eyes pleading. Were already here almost every day. You wouldnt mind, would you?

Babcia Zofia went still. She understood how exhausted we were. On one side, we would be safe with herin a calm place where homework could be done without shouting and we could feel protected. She loved us fiercely 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 live at home? Would they accept it? And if they did, what would that do to their relationship with us? Could this choice end up cutting us off from them completely?

Lets not decide anything in a hurry, she said after a deep breath. You know Im always glad to have you here. But first we should try talking to your mother and father. Maybe the three of us can find a way to make things better.

Dont worry, well speak to them ourselves, Zuzanna answered confidently, smiling for the first time that evening. Babcia had nearly agreedthat was what mattered most. Just dont turn us down, please. We truly cant stay there any longer. It would be better for them to live apart toootherwise they might actually hurt each other one day. I saw dad raise his hand at mum yesterday. He didnt hit her, I swear, but he was right on the edge.

Zuzanna went quiet, remembering the moment. She had walked into the kitchen for water and stopped in the doorway: father half-turned, arm lifted sharply, mother flinching. He lowered it a second later, but that second had felt endless to her.

Babcia, please say yes, I added, moving closer and taking her hand. Well help with everything around the house. Just dont send us back. They barely notice we exist. Yesterday I told dad about the parent-teacher meeting. You know what he said? Ask your mother. So I did. Guess what she answered?

Go ask your father? Babcia Zofia said quietly.

Exactly. Then they spent the next two hours yelling across the corridor about who should go. I just stood there listening.

I asked them both to sign a permission slip for a school museum trip, Zuzanna added, eyes on the table. Her fingers kept twisting the edge of her sleeve. Now Im the only one in my class who cant go. Neither of them signed it. Instead they started fighting againmother said it was fathers job, and he said she should handle school things.

Babcia Zofia watched us and saw the deep tiredness in our faces. It wasnt ordinary fatigue. It was the kind that comes from months of the same pattern: constant arguments instead of warmth, indifference instead of support.

Its always like this, I said, shoulders dropping. My voice sounded worn out, as if I had said the same thing a hundred times. Anything we ask turns into another fight. We dont even want to come home. The other night we got back at eleven and they didnt even scold us. They just sent us straight to bed without asking where wed been. Later they spent ages blaming each other for raising us badly.

Zuzanna and I sighed at the same time. Lately we had both been thinking that divorce might be the only solution. What scared us was the idea of being separated one of us with mother, the other with father, our closeness reduced to occasional weekends.

We talked about it in whispers at night when we were alone. Once I joked that we should just pack bags and run away, go wherever we wanted. I said it with a smile to ease the tension, but Zuzanna took it seriously. Her eyes brightened for a moment before she said quietly, What if we actually did leave? Even for a few days In that second we both understood how bad things had become when running away no longer felt completely mad.

Then the idea came to both of us at once: babcia. Why not ask to move in with her? Zuzanna spoke first. What if we ask babcia if we can live here? She wont shout or fight. We wont have to listen to their arguments anymore. I jumped in right away. Yes! Shes kind and always helps us. Her flat is big enough for all three of us.

We started imagining what life could look like: quiet breakfasts, doing homework without interruptions, evenings playing games with babcia. No more shouting, no accusations, no hiding in our room. For the first time in a long while we felt a small spark of hope. Let our parents sort out their own mess. We would finally have peace.

My sister and I stood in the living room that evening, facing both parents. We had waited until they were home and walked in together. Zuzanna held my hand tightlyit helped us both stay steady.

We need to talk seriously, we said at the same time. But first promise youll listen to everything we have to say before you answer.

Father put his phone down and stared at us. Mother stopped folding laundry and straightened up, looking as if we had just said something unthinkable.

This is your fault! she snapped, folding her arms. The children are already giving us orders, as if we have to report to them!

And whos talking! father shot back, voice rising. Im at work all day trying to provide. Youve been with them the whole time. What exactly did you teach them that now they think they can tell us what to do?

We looked at each other. We had expected the usual patternblame flying back and forth. But we couldnt back down.

Enough! Zuzannas voice shook, but she stepped forward and spoke clearly. Weve talked about it. We think you should get a divorce.

The room went completely silent. Mothers mouth opened but no sound came out. Father slowly stood up from the sofa.

Well, thats new, mother said, her voice low and dangerous. Zuzanna, youre still too young to tell grown-ups how to live their lives. And what else have you two decided? Maybe you want to divide the flat for us too?

If you dont divorce, well go to the family court, I said, gripping Zuzannas hand harder. My voice stayed firm even though my stomach was turning. And then, father, you could lose your job. Your company doesnt like public scandals. Youve said yourself that reputation is everything.

And you, mother, Zuzanna continued, looking straight at her, would lose the respect of the neighbours. People would stop talking to you. Everyone already knows how you shout at each otherwe can add the details.

Theyre threatening us! Look at them! mother finally got out, glancing between us. These are our own children. How can you speak to us this way?

Were not threatening, I answered quietly but clearly. We just want you to understand that things cant go on like this. Were exhausted. Tired of the shouting, of being ignored, of every simple request turning into a fight.

Well get divorced, move apart, and well live with babcia, we said together, the way we had practised. It will be better for everyone. Well have peace. Youll have no more constant conflicts. We dont want to be caught in the middle anymore.

Both parents stayed frozen. For once they had nothing ready to say. Usually they would start interrupting and accusing each other, but now neither could speak.

Our parents had thought about divorce before. The thing that always stopped them was the question of who would get us. Splitting twins who had always done everything together seemed unthinkable. They couldnt imagine forcing us to live in different homes and only see each other on weekends.

They had never considered babcia as an option. Their own arguments had taken up so much space that the thought never occurred to them. But now, hearing us say it out loud, they began to wonder if this could actually work. Babcia loved us, her flat was big, she was always happy to see us. Maybe this could solve at least some of the problems.

Ill call my mother, father said through his teeth, voice rough. If she agrees

He didnt finish. Mother cut in, and the exhaustion in her voice surprised even her.

Then we can finally stop hurting each other. Call her. Ill be glad not to see your face every day.

Her words hung in the air. She hadnt meant to sound so sharp, but years of resentment had pushed them out.

And Ill be just as glad, father replied, trying to hide the hurt behind a bitter half-smile.

There was no real anger in his tone, only tired irony about what their marriage had become. He took out his phone and dialled. While the call connected, they both looked in different directions, avoiding each others eyes. Neither of them knew where this would lead, but they understood something had shifted past the point of return.

That day our family made a decision that changed everything. It started with a long talk between father and babcia Zofia. She listened without interrupting, only asking a few quiet questions when she needed to understand better.

When father finished explaining everything, there was a pause. Babcia sighed and said, If you both believe this is better for the children, I agree. Theyll be safe here. Ill look after them.

By evening our parents met in the kitchenwithout shouting or accusations for the first time in a long while. They sat across from each other and began working out the details. Step by step they reached the same conclusion: divorce was the only reasonable way forward. We would move to babcias, and they would send her money each month for our support.

Neither of them planned to abandon us. Both promised to visit on weekends, but on different days so they wouldnt have to see each other. Father said he would come Saturday mornings to take us out, and mother would come Sundays. That way things would stay simpler. The main goal was to keep us from feeling left behind.

They agreed not to talk badly about each other in front of us, not to try winning us over, and not to argue when we were around.

Were still their parents, father said. That doesnt change just because were no longer married.

As time passed, the arrangement worked well. Zuzanna and I finally relaxed and started living like normal teenagers. She joined an art club she had wanted to try for years but never had the peace for. I started playing football and made new friends on the team. We spent time together againwalking around the city, going to the cinema, talking about school without worrying that a fight would break out at any second.

Our schoolwork improved too. We had a quiet place to study with no shouting in the background. Teachers noticed the difference and said we had become much more focused.

Life settled into a steady rhythmnever perfect, but calm and predictable. We stopped hiding in our room or jumping at loud voices. We simply lived the way teenagers should, with some stability to lean on.

Five years later things had found their own quiet pace. Zuzanna and I were used to the new routine: school, clubs, friends, and warm evenings with babcia. Our parents still visited on alternate days, bringing small gifts and attention but without old resentments. Over time they had learned to speak politely and keep things civil.

The first real meeting between them happened at our school leaving celebration. Both came, sitting at opposite ends of the hall at first, watching carefully. During the dancing father walked over to mother and asked if she wanted to dance, just for old times. After a moment she agreed.

Later they sat outside the school watching the other graduates by the fountain. They talked easilyfirst about us, then about earlier years. They remembered good times without digging up old arguments. Zuzanna and I watched from a distance and felt relieved. It had hurt to see the two people we loved most treating each other like enemies.

The next day they invited us to a café. Over tea they suddenly took each others hands. Father smiled widely and said they had decided to remarry. They had changed, learned to listen, and wanted to give the family another chance.

Zuzanna and I looked at each other. Our faces darkened. We didnt believe it would last. We had heard this before.

Are you serious? Zuzanna managed to ask.

Completely, father answered. Were different people now.

We stayed silent. We wanted to hope, but the memory of past pain was too strong. We didnt argue with them, but we also didnt pretend to be happy. That hurt them, yet we couldnt lie.

They went through with the wedding anywaya small ceremony at the civil registry office followed by a quiet meal with close family. In the photos they looked genuinely content, holding hands and smiling at each other. For a while it seemed as if the old wounds had healed.

But it didnt last. The first few weeks were peaceful. They tried to be kinder. Then the old patterns returned. Within a month the sharp comments started again. A month after that the real fights came backover wet towels, forgotten bread, the television being too loud. Voices rose, doors slammed.

Two months later, exactly as I had feared, things exploded. One evening an argument about shopping turned violent. Father threw a cup against the wall. Mother grabbed a plate and smashed it on the floor. The sound of breaking dishes filled the flat.

After every fight they called us. Mother would phone Zuzanna in tears, pouring out every grievance. Father would ring me, insisting mother was impossible to live with. We learned to cut those calls short. We no longer played mediator or tried to fix what we couldnt fix.

We have our own lives now, we told them. You need to sort this out between yourselves.

When they tried to pull us back in again, we were ready. Zuzanna and I had already talked about how we would respond.

Enough, Zuzanna said firmly the next time mother called crying. You have your life. We have ours.

But youre our children! mother sobbed. You should support us!

If you acted like adults instead of children, we would, I answered. You chose to remarry. Youre still making each other miserable. If you cant live together without fighting, then stop forcing it. Get divorced properly and live separately.

The words were hard, but we meant them. We simply wanted to live without being dragged back into their storms.

We both moved to Warszawa for university. Zuzanna studied psychology and began volunteering at a centre that helped teenagers from difficult homes. She led small groups and listened to young people who reminded her of our old selves. She gave them the attention and support she had once needed herself.

I went into computer science. I spent hours learning code, joined student competitions, and eventually found part-time work at a small tech company. We planned our futures without waiting for the next parental crisis. Zuzanna wanted her own practice one day, helping families communicate better. I thought about starting my own projects.

When our parents called again in tears, complaining about each other, we gave the same clear answer.

Stop, we said together. Were not part of this anymore. Figure it out yourselves.

We had our own lives nowlives we refused to let their endless fights destroy.