I am sitting here in my quiet room at Babaanne Emines, pen in hand, turning over the fragments of our broken family in my mind. The shouts still echo from that day in our apartment building in Bursa: What is wrong with you again?! How much longer can this go on?! I am exhausted by all of it! My mother Gülşens voice carried through the entire stairwell.
At that moment Serkan and I were climbing the stairs after school. We stopped dead, as though we had walked into an invisible barrier. Our eyes met for a heartbeat and no words were needed. We both knew it was wiser to leave. Breathing out together we turned and slipped away from the building. Returning to the apartment was clearly not in our plans that evening.
Who would choose to spend the night listening to parents tear each other apart? Certainly not us. We walked straight to the neighboring entrance where Babaanne Emine lived. Her flat had become our only safe harbor lately. Where we once visited only on weekends, we now sought shelter there almost every night.
The air in our parents home had grown impossible to breathe. They screamed at each other without pause, forgetting everything else. Worst of all, they had begun pulling us into the middle of every fight.
Mother would spin toward me and demand, Tell me I am right. You agree, dont you?
Father would cut in before any answer and turn to Serkan, No, I am the one who is right here. Back me up!
We stayed silent. Neither of us wanted to pick a side or become part of their endless war. All we craved was quiet, calm, and warmththe very things we found with Babaanne.
These scenes played out day after day like the same tired song no one dared to stop. We had learned to read the smallest signs that another storm was coming: the edge in a voice, the sudden sharpness in movements, the quick glances they exchanged. Those were our signals to disappear. What child wants to live in constant dread, knowing any ordinary conversation can explode into shouting without warning?
We could never grasp what had set off this collapse. Our family had never been picture-perfect, yet before this our parents had known how to talk things through. Arguments happened, but they ended in quiet conversation. Mother might frown, father might raise his voice, but half an hour later we would all sit at the table, drink çay, and plan the weekend.
Roughly two years earlier everything shifted. It felt as if someone had quietly swapped our old parents for new ones who found reasons to quarrel over the tiniest details. A tea glass left on the table? A long lecture on thoughtlessness and disrespect. A shirt hung on the wrong hook? Sharp comments about order in the house. A spoon forgotten in the sink? Almost a crime that deserved ten minutes of interrogation.
One evening I sat at Babaanne Emines kitchen table, absently stirring my çay. I watched the amber circles form in the glass for a long while before I finally spoke with bitterness.
How did it come to this, Babaanne? Everything changed after their holiday together. What really happened there?
Babaanne Emine paused, set her cup on its saucer, and gently touched my hand. She only guessed at the reasons for the rift, and those guesses brought her no comfort.
Adults will sort themselves out, she answered softly, trying to
