**”A Sister? No Thanks, I’ve Had Enough…”**
Lately, I’ve stopped answering the door to my own sister. No calls, no visits, not a shred of concern—just complete silence. It might sound harsh, but only to those who don’t know the full story. I simply don’t have the strength left to be a mother, a housekeeper, and an unpaid therapist all at once. My sister drained every last bit of me. You’d think sharing blood would mean something, but it feels more like hosting an unwanted guest who feeds off your energy and never even says thank you.
Our family is, to put it mildly, unconventional. Imagine this—Mum and I got pregnant around the same time. I was twenty; she was forty-two. I had twins, she had her third child. Add to that our younger sister, Molly, who’d just turned eighteen. Chaos? Absolutely. Fun? Not even close. Especially when you’re juggling two babies, a household, 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 bump was already giving me away. But I didn’t back down; we took it as fate’s gift. Ever since, for a year and three months, I’ve lived on overdrive: nappies, porridge, tantrums, cleaning, laundry, cooking, and the rare moments of quiet when the boys finally sleep.
And Molly? She decided Mum asked too much of her and ran away—where to? My place. Not for a few days, but indefinitely. Officially, she was there to *help* with her nephews. In reality? Glued to her phone, eating the meals I’d cooked, then telling Mum how *exhausted* she was from *helping me*. Hypocrisy? Absolutely.
University? Never went. Work? Quit. Ambitions? None. But complaints? She could outdo a government official. If I asked her to lift a finger, she’d go on about how *Mum drained her* and how she *needed rest*. I tried ignoring it, pretending she’d snap out of it and start pitching in. Wishful thinking. All I got in return was zero effort, zero gratitude, and an endless list of demands.
Then one day, I just snapped. It had been a hard day—kids fussing, dinner burning, laundry piling up, no time to eat. And Molly walks in, asking… if she could invite her friend over. To *my* house. While I was breaking my back, she wanted a cosy chat. That was the final straw.
I turned off the hob, wiped my hands, and calmly said, *”Pack your things. Go home.”* I won’t have her here anymore. Life’s hard enough without a *”helper”* like that. I’m only human, and patience runs out. Let her explain to Mum why she can’t hide at her sister’s anymore. As for me? I’ll finally breathe—even if it’s with two little ones in my arms.
