Parents work on setting boundaries for children, helping them understand why they shouldn’t grab another kid’s toy at daycare or hit their sister when they’re angry. But how do you respond as an adult child when your parent is the one who has poor boundaries, constantly interfering with your parenting or belittling you or your children? Some people are choosing estrangement to cope with unresolved issues like these. 

It’s hard enough to deal with difficult parents on your own. Add grandchildren to the mix, and it’s terribly painful. When should you consider partial or no contact? Is there anything you can do before taking this drastic step? 

Karl Pillemer, Ph.D., of Cornell University led the largest U.S. survey on estrangement to date. In his book “Fault Lines,” he details the six most common reasons for estrangement: 

• abuse, neglect or favoritism in childhood
• divorce
• problematic in-laws
• money and inheritance
• unmet expectations in times of crisis or celebration
• value and lifestyle differences. 

Pillemer’s study omits the cause I hear about the most: mental illness or addiction issues. If your parents aren’t safe for you or your children to be around, it’s your job to protect them. If they’re merely annoying or have a different take on parenting than you do, that’s a different situation. Here are some questions to help you weigh going partial or no contact:

• Am I or my children in danger in their presence or their home environment?
• Are they likely to say things that might cause harm to my children, us or our friends?
• Are my parents people I would spend time with if we were not related?
• Are my parents kind and a good influence for my children?

My book, “Bitter, Sweet: How to Heal Yourself When Your Family Is Broken,” takes a look inside the 16-year family estrangement caused by my childhood sexual abuse, how I was able to heal and what forgiveness and reconciliation looked like for me. Many estrangements are caused by what Pillemer names a “volcanic event” — that is, the last straw. It can be a seemingly innocuous moment, especially to the other person, but to you, it’s the one-millionth time your parent says or does the thing you have expressly told them you hated. For an example of what that might look like, here’s an excerpt from “Bitter, Sweet.”

Chapter 1:  A Western Omelet That Became the Last Straw

Colorado — 1990 — age 28

“Don’t tell your mother about this,” he said, winking at the waitress as he handed over the oversized laminated breakfast menu. He was on a strict egg-white-only diet, but I had no more control over what he ate than anything else my father did, as he’d never listened to a word I said.

I’d been visiting my parents in Colorado for a few days, re-adjusting to Mountain time after being in Southeast Asia for two months. I’d arrived with a backpack, spilling over with stories, feeling brand-new after my solo travels. My freshness began to slip as soon as I arrived, my family relationships frozen in time like a beetle in amber.

My family didn’t want to hear about my adventures, like how they’d served us roasted chickens in Hong Kong, cleavered crosswise into slices with a thwack. Or how, despite speaking no Cantonese, I’d figured out how to barter using only a calculator. Or that I’d ridden a rented bicycle alone from Chiang Mai out into the Thai countryside for the sole purpose of buying fabric.

My photos were wending their way home to my Chicago apartment in pre-paid international mailers, so I couldn’t show them the hotel where I’d swum in the Indian Ocean, the volcanic crater we’d climbed that emitted sulphureous fumes from deep inside the earth or the farm where I’d held a koala outside of Sydney. 

When he kissed me goodbye at the airport curb, I didn’t know it was the end, the last time things would be normal between us. I didn’t know it would be years before I hugged either of my parents, or that all future hugs would be stiff and unyielding.

At 28, I’d managed a two-month trip overseas on my own, yet in their house it was as if I’d never moved out and we all still lived in Connecticut.

All I wanted to do was get on the plane and go home. 

Instead, foggy from jetlag, I found myself alone with my father in a diner, facing off over speckled Formica, as the waitress clattered our plates onto the table: Western omelet vs. fruit salad.

“We need to have a talk.”

A mouth of disappointing cantaloupe covered my answer.

“How’s your job search going?”

“Dad, I’ve only been back in the States for a few days. No one would talk to me when they heard I’d be traveling for two months.”

“You should’ve let me redo your resume. I could have been working on this while you were away.”

I took another bite.

“I’m very concerned with your welfare.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Very concerned.”

“I’ll sign up with my old temp agency. I’ll probably be working next week.”

“You have a master’s degree. You’re overqualified to be a secretary.”

I sighed. It was a waste of time to argue with him.

His voice shifted to the oddly formal tone he used when he was trying to get me to do something. Concern knitted his dark brows together. At 66, his long dark sideburns had just a touch of gray.

“I have a proposal for you.”

I did my best not to roll my eyes. He had “a proposal” for me every time we’d talked on the phone, ever since I’d left home for college 10 years prior. What now? Write a book together? Fly back again for Mom and Peter’s birthday in May? I grunted, trying not to encourage him.

“I know you’ve said you don’t want to move back here.”

I’d never lived in Colorado. “Moving back” was his fiction.

“But what do you think about this? We can build a wing on the house so you can have your own apartment. If you wanted to pay rent, we’d keep it low. Wouldn’t that be great?”

I sat quietly, screaming inside. What was his problem? I’d been living on my own in Chicago for a decade. I’d expressed zero interest in moving to Colorado, despite many chances to visit. My older brother Brian had lived there since the ‘70s. My older sister Jen was raising her young family nearby. When my parents had chosen to retire there a year ago, my younger brother Peter tagged along for the ride. Dad had become Colorado’s newest and most fervent ambassador, trading his polyester dress shirts for plaid flannel and a bolo tie. But I never saw him in jeans or cowboy boots, only the tan Sansabelt slacks and tennis shoes he’d worn forever. 

“Are you joking?”

“No, we have plenty of room on the property. The view would be so great. You could come and go as you wanted.” He looked at me, expectant, pleased with himself.

“No thank you.” I fought to keep my voice level.

“Will you please think about it?”

“The answer will still be no.”

“Just think about it.”

“We should be getting on the road.”

I stared out the window on the long drive to Stapleton International Airport, ignoring the stream of factoids rolling off his tongue. Colorado was superior to Chicago in every way. Low taxes. Economy improving. No crime. Wonderful people. Your sister and brothers live here. He always conveniently forgot that my oldest sister Cassie lived on the other side of the country, even farther away than me.

When he kissed me goodbye at the airport curb, I didn’t know it was the end, the last time things would be normal between us. I didn’t know it would be years before I hugged either of my parents, or that all future hugs would be stiff and unyielding.

I would be estranged from my parents for 16 years. During that time, I changed jobs, moved across the country and got married. I returned to Colorado for my older brother Brian’s mountain wedding, maneuvered by the photographer into posing stiffly across from my parents while never speaking to them. I was vague with friends and colleagues about my relatives, ashamed of what I saw as my failure to have a functional family. I didn’t know that family estrangement would become increasingly common — that by the 2020s, one in four Americans would be estranged from their families, and that it usually stemmed from the adult child breaking contact. I couldn’t know then the high psychological price estrangement would exact on all of us. Or that it was my only path toward healing.

I didn’t know these things because in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I didn’t hear anyone talking about childhood sexual abuse, gaslighting or generational trauma. I can only see it now with the gifts of time, therapy and interrogating my story. And I’ve written this book for you because —had I read a story like mine when I was 25 — I might have gotten to a place of healing decades sooner than I did. 

On the flight home, my thoughts whirled around the same question: Why didn’t Dad ever listen when I said no?

I felt something break open inside me. A dam. A wall. A bunker. Underneath was more anger than I knew what to do with. Underneath anger was rage. Underneath rage, something more. When I got home to Chicago, I called my therapist before checking in with the temp agency.

Buckle up. There will be turbulence ahead. But the plane will land safely.

Excerpt from “Bitter, Sweet: How to Heal Yourself When Your Family Is Broken” (Woodhall Press, 2026)

Stephanie Weaver, MPH, is a TEDx speaker coach and chronic illness advocate who distills complex human experiences into accessible, compelling narratives. Her fifth book, “Bitter, Sweet: How to Heal Yourself When Your Family Is Broken,” is a heartfelt exploration of healing from childhood sexual abuse.