“A Sister? No, Thank You…”
It’s been a while since I last opened the door to my own sister. No calls, no visits, not a shred of concern—just silence. It might sound harsh, but only to those who don’t know the full story. I had simply run out of strength, trying to be a mother, a housekeeper, and an unpaid therapist all at once. My sister drained me dry. We share the same blood, yet it felt like hosting an uninvited guest who fed on my energy without so much as a word of gratitude.
Our family was, to put it mildly, unconventional. Imagine this: my mother and I fell pregnant almost at the same time. I was just twenty; she was forty-two. I had twins; she had her third child. Then there was our youngest sister, Emily, who’d just turned eighteen. Chaos? Absolutely. Fun? Hardly. Especially when you’re juggling two babies, a household, and a sister who’s decided your flat is her personal retreat.
My husband and I had planned for our boys, though the twins were a surprise. I found out late, when my belly had already given me away. But we embraced it—a twist of fate. For a year and three months, I’ve lived in a whirlwind of nappies, porridge, tears, cleaning, laundry, and cooking, with only rare moments of quiet when the boys finally slept.
And Emily? She decided our mother asked too much of her and ran away—straight to me. Not for a day or two, but indefinitely. Officially, she was “helping with her nephews.” In reality? Glued to her phone, finishing my meals, and telling our mother how “exhausted” she was from “helping her sister.” Hypocrisy? The worst kind.
University? Never went. A job? Quit. Ambitions? None. Complaints? Endless. If I dared ask her to lift a finger, she’d sigh about how “our mother wore her out” and how she “needed a rest.” I tried ignoring it, turning a blind eye, hoping she’d snap out of it. Wishful thinking. In return? No initiative, no gratitude, just demands.
Then, one day, I snapped. The boys were fussy, lunch was burning, the laundry was spinning, and I hadn’t even eaten. And Emily? She asked if she could invite her friend over. To my home. While I was breaking my back, she wanted to lounge about chatting. That was the final straw.
I turned off the stove, wiped my hands, and calmly said, “Pack your things. Go home.” I couldn’t bear to see her in my flat another day. Life was hard enough without a “helper” like her. I’m not made of steel. Patience runs out. Let her explain to our mother why she can’t hide at her sister’s anymore. As for me? I’ll take the quiet—even with two children in my arms.
