“A sister? No thanks, I’ve decided enough is enough.”
These days, I don’t answer the door to my own sister. No calls, no visits, not a shred of support—just silence. It might sound heartless, but only to someone who doesn’t know the full story. I’ve simply run out of energy being both a mother, a housemaid, and an unpaid therapist all at once. My sister has drained me dry. We share the same blood, yet she feels like an unwanted guest, feeding off my energy without so much as a thank you.
Our family is, to put it mildly, unusual. Picture this: Mum and I got pregnant almost at the same time. I was twenty; Mum was forty-two. I had twins, and she had her third child. Add to that our youngest sister, Emily, who was eighteen at the time. Chaos? Definitely. Fun? Not even close. Especially when you’re juggling two babies, a home, chores, and a sister who treats your flat like her personal holiday retreat.
My boys were planned—though twins were a surprise. I found out late, when my belly had already given me away. But we took it in stride, a gift from fate. For the past year and three months, I’ve been in survival mode: nappies, mashed peas, tantrums, cleaning, laundry, cooking—and the rare quiet moments when the kids finally sleep.
And Emily? She decided Mum’s expectations were too much and ran away. And where do you think she landed? At my doorstep. Not for a few days—indefinitely. Officially, she was here to “help with the nephews.” In reality, she spent all day scrolling on her phone, eating my meals, and complaining to Mum about how “exhausted” she was. Hypocrisy? Oh, absolutely.
University? Dropped out. Job? Quit. Ambitions? None. But demands? Plenty. If I asked her to lift a finger around the house, she’d instantly whine about how “Mum drained her” and how she “needed to rest.” I tried ignoring it, hoping she’d snap out of it and actually help. Wishful thinking. All I got in return was zero effort, zero gratitude, and an endless list of complaints.
Then one day, I snapped. It had been another rough day: the twins were fussy, dinner was bubbling on the stove, laundry was half-done, and I hadn’t even eaten. And what does Emily do? Asks me to invite her best mate over. To my home. While I’m running on fumes, she wants a girly catch-up. That was the final straw.
I turned off the hob, wiped my hands, and said calmly, “Pack your things. Go home.” I don’t want her here anymore. Life’s hard enough without a “helper” like her. I’m not made of steel. Patience runs out. Now she can explain to Mum why she’s not hiding at her sister’s anymore. As for me? I’ll finally breathe—even if it’s with two toddlers in my arms.
