Mental Health
Let’s just say I ended the relationship as much for my mom’s sake as for my own, because if I had to keep enduring it, I’m sure I would have killed someone sooner or later. Or she might have killed me—I don’t rule that out either. It’s better for both of us not to be in contact, and since then, I’ve felt so much better.
Clarity
They didn’t come to my graduation. During college, I lived in a dorm and worked to pay my own way. They had no part in it, but I thought maybe they’d be a little proud. I waited for them all evening—I even cooked a big meal—but when my dad finally answered the phone, he said they’d gone to the neighbor Józsi’s birthday party instead. That was the last time I spoke with them.
What a question
My mom told me to choose: her or my husband. I almost laughed—was she serious? I can’t understand how she thought for a second I’d pick her…
Aunt Márta
Aunt Márta lives in the village. She has one son, Zénó, who was raised with devoted care by her and her husband, Uncle Berci. Zénó went to a boarding school in a nearby town for high school and only came home on weekends. When he started university, he visited home about every two to three months, bringing food and money. Even when he was well into his twenties and working in the capital, his parents still paid his rent. By then, he only came home at Christmas and didn’t even check in with his parents during the year. The whole village disapproved of his behavior, but Aunt Márta and Uncle Berci always defended him, saying he worked hard, was busy, and otherwise a good kid.
Many years have passed since then, and Zénó last came home about 15 years ago, when Uncle Berci died. Aunt Márta couldn’t survive on her 80,000 HUF (~230 USD) pension and struggled in their crumbling house. The villagers helped her so she wouldn’t starve or freeze in winter. No one had been able to reach her son for years. Zénó only showed up when his mother died—alone in the hospital’s long-term care ward, where the nurses said she still talked about her beloved son—and only stayed until the house was sold. I’m sharing this to highlight that sometimes kids choose "no contact" not because they have to, but out of selfishness.
The Last Straw
My dad’s last blow was when his drunkenness ruined my wedding. Since then, I’ve cut him out of my life.
The Swinging Hand
I explained to my mom many times that it was already wrong that she hit me, but she absolutely cannot lay a hand on my little boy. Two days later, right before my eyes, she slapped my two-year-old son hard. That was it for me. My aunt sometimes messages me saying how lonely my mom is, but I don’t care—I never want to see her again.
Absolutely justified
I left home at 20 and only visited twice in the next three years—and even then, why bother? At 23, I decided enough was enough. I changed my phone number, moved to a new apartment, and never looked back. It was the best decision I ever made.
The Reason
The long-awaited grandchild was born, and my parents were over the moon. On their first visit, they took hundreds of photos of the baby, and I asked them kindly not to share any on Facebook. They were outraged and asked why. I explained that, partly because of our jobs (I’m a detective, my husband is a judge) and partly to protect our child’s right to privacy, we preferred they didn’t. After that, they went home and the next day plastered social media with photos of the baby. I called them calmly and asked them to take the pictures down. After a huge argument, I told them they couldn’t visit until the photos—especially the ones where my daughter was naked—were removed. They said then they never wanted to see us again and hung up. My daughter is now five and still hasn’t met her grandparents, but honestly, that wasn’t my decision alone.
Yes
I was the one who convinced my wife not to reach out to her parents anymore, who never appreciated her and only used her. It’s telling that since she stopped calling them—four years ago—they haven’t reached out either. This is better.
Gratitude
I don’t have many memories of my dad, just that he’d be sprawled on the couch, watching soccer and sometimes yelling at me and my little brother to be quiet: “Quiet, kids!” After I turned ten, I can count on one hand how many times I saw him. One time, he even climbed in through the window and stole our TV. My mom died recently—it’s no wonder she didn’t live long, life really took its toll on her—and now my dad has reappeared, and my brother and I are supposed to take care of him. He’s drowning in debt, has barely any pension, and is asking for help. But we won’t give it because we feel there’s nothing to be grateful for.
He threatened to take us to court, saying it’s our legal duty. (Unfortunately, he’s right.) I told him good luck—we have dozens of witnesses ready to say he never did anything for us in his whole life. Since then, we’ve blocked his number and will only engage if he really takes legal action.
