My Aging Parents Shocked Me By Walking Away From Our Relationship

If I were a sandwich, I’d be a warm, sturdy grilled cheese: holding together the people I love, making sure everyone is cared for. That’s what it means to be part of the “sandwich generation” — balancing the needs of young children while also stepping into the role of supporting aging parents. It’s a responsibility many of us take on with love, even when it’s complicated.

But for me that expected role was never fully mine to claim. Not because I wasn’t willing, but because my parents made a choice to walk away.

The anticipated role of caregiver to my mom and dad ended the day they drove away from my older sister last summer. She had had enough and confronted my parents on some of the ways in which they’ve caused and continue to cause profuse harm time and time again. She stood up. They shut her out. With me, my parents acted as if nothing had happened, calling me states away in an all-too-familiar false, chipper voice asking about my kids. Deflection at its finest.

It took some time, but I knew I had to say something. That moment came

in a phone call five months ago, one I’ll never forget. I laid down the boundary I’d spent years avoiding: “Either you get professional help, and we go to family therapy, or we cannot continue to have a relationship. Either you reconcile with my sister, or I cannot feel safe continuing this dynamic.”

I knew the risks of saying those words. I’d prepared myself for a fight, for resistance, for anything but what happened next: They chose to leave. They left the scene entirely, as if my boundary was a door I’d slammed shut instead of one I was holding open, waiting for them to walk through with a willingness to grow.

But their departure didn’t feel sudden. It happened piece by piece, day by day, year by year. My childhood wasn’t a movie about stereotypical abuse — no fists flying or bruises to hide. But there were other kinds of wounds. It was a household that felt like an emotional war zone, a place where fight-or-flight was the default setting. I’ve been told I should just call it what it was — but I’m still working on that.

And maybe part of why I struggle to name it is because I’ve always been able to empathize with my parents. As an autistic woman, I have what I call “retrospective hyper-empathy.” I don’t just feel what people are feeling in the moment; I imagine their whole story, the years of emotions that got them to this place. I put myself in their shoes so well that I’ve tripped over their baggage more times than I care to count.

That hyper-empathy kept me in this twisted stalemate with my parents for years. I rationalized their behavior. I excused the harm they caused me and my siblings. I told myself, They’re human. They’re flawed. They’re trying their best. And maybe some of that is true. But what’s also true is that understanding someone’s pain doesn’t erase the harm they inflict.

And here’s the thing: setting boundaries is not self-centered. It’s self-preserving. I hope one day they’ll see what they’ve walked away from. I hope they’ll show up at my sister’s door and start to repair what’s broken there. And I hope, maybe in the end, they’ll find their way back to me.

Reconciliation isn’t always easy, and sometimes it doesn’t come at all. But I still hold space for the possibility — that healing can happen, that relationships can be rebuilt, that time might soften what once felt unmovable. And maybe, in that moment, I’d finally understand what it means to be part of the sandwich generation: holding things together physically, but also being emotionally held in return. Not just carrying the weight of care, but receiving it, too.

I imagine them showing up as older, more fragile versions of themselves–arms weakened with age but still carrying the weight of the lives they’ve lived, they’d pull me into a hug that says what words never could: We see you. We’re sorry. We love you.