There's a particular kind of warfare that happens after divorce—a cold war fought through children. Like Russia and NATO using Ukraine as a proxy battlefield, divorced parents sometimes use their children to continue battles they can't fight directly anymore. The marriage may be over, but the war continues, with children becoming the territory both sides fight to control.
The child becomes a pawn in a game they never agreed to play. Every custody exchange becomes a border crossing, every holiday a negotiated settlement, every childhood milestone a strategic victory for one parent and a defeat for the other.
Like superpowers vying for influence in a buffer state, each parent works to secure the child's loyalty. The weapons are subtle: extra gifts, looser rules, exciting adventures on one side; consistency, structure, and "tough love" on the other. The child learns to navigate both territories, adapting their personality and preferences depending on which border they've crossed.
"Your mother lets you eat that? Well, in this house we have rules."
These aren't just differences in parenting styles—they're strategic moves in a larger conflict. The parent isn't just setting rules; they're drawing a line in the sand, defining their territory in opposition to the other parent's domain.
Children become intelligence assets in this domestic cold war. Each parent pumps them for information about the other's life: "Is your dad dating anyone?" "What did your mom buy with the child support money?" "Does she still drink that much wine?"
The child becomes a reluctant spy, carrying secrets across enemy lines. They learn to edit, omit, and sometimes outright lie to maintain the fragile peace. The truth becomes a dangerous commodity that might trigger another round of hostilities.
Like civilians caught in an actual war zone, children in these situations develop survival skills. They become expert diplomats, peacemakers, and conflict-avoiders. They learn to read emotional landscapes with the precision of military strategists, anticipating explosions and navigating minefields.
But the cost is their childhood. While other kids are worrying about homework and friendships, these children are managing adult emotions, mediating between warring factions, and carrying burdens that should never belong to a child.
"Just tell your father that if he really loved you, he'd pay for your braces."
The child becomes the messenger, the negotiator, the emotional hostage in a conflict they didn't start and can't end.
What makes these proxy wars particularly devastating is their endless nature. Actual wars eventually end with treaties or surrender. But parental conflicts can simmer for decades, flaring up at graduations, weddings, even grandchildren's birthdays.
The battlefield just keeps expanding. Now it's not just about custody—it's about which parent gets acknowledged in the graduation speech, who sits where at the wedding, which grandparents get more time with the grandchildren.
Healing begins when the child—now often an adult—declares themselves neutral territory. It requires the difficult work of setting boundaries, refusing to carry messages, and insisting on being treated as a person rather than a prize.
Some learn to establish diplomatic relations with both parents while maintaining their own sovereignty. Others have to withdraw from one or both battle zones entirely for their own peace.
The most hopeful outcome is when parents eventually realize they've been fighting over ruins—that in their battle to win, they've damaged what they were fighting for. But like actual geopolitical conflicts, these realizations often come too late, after the damage is done.
A Note on Conflict Resolution
This essay uses geopolitical analogies to describe family dynamics that many children of divorce will recognize. While not all divorced parents engage in these patterns, those who do create lasting emotional consequences.
The hope is that by naming these patterns, we can better understand and heal from them.