“Blood sister? No, thanks…”
Lately, I’ve stopped opening the door to my own sister. No calls, no visits, not an ounce of care—just complete silence. It might sound harsh. But only to those who don’t know the full story. I’ve simply run out of strength, playing mother, housekeeper, and unpaid therapist all at once. My sister drained me dry. She’s supposed to be family, yet she felt like an uninvited guest, feeding off my energy without so much as a thank you.
Our family is, to put it mildly, unconventional. Picture this: Mum and I got pregnant at almost the same time. I was twenty, she was forty-two. I had twins—she had her third child. Add to that our younger sister, Emily, 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 the twins were a surprise. I found out late, when my belly was already giving me away. But I didn’t back down—we took it as fate’s little gift. For a year and three months now, I’ve been living in survival mode: nappies, mushy peas, screaming, cleaning, laundry, cooking, and the rare moments of quiet when the kids finally sleep.
And Emily? She decided Mum asked too much of her and ran away. And where to? Straight to me. Not for a few days—permanently. Officially, she was “helping with her nephews.” In reality? Glued to her phone, eating the food I cooked, and telling Mum how “exhausted” she was from “helping her sister.” Hypocrisy? You bet.
University? Dropped out. Job? Quit. Ambitions? None. But complaints? Plenty. If I dared ask her to lift a finger, she’d sigh about how “Mum drained her” and she “needed to rest.” I tried to ignore it, to believe she’d snap out of it and pitch in. Yeah, dream on. Instead, I got zero effort, zero gratitude, and all the entitlement.
Then one day, I snapped. It had been another impossible day—kids fussing, dinner burning, laundry half-done, no time to eat. And Emily walked in, asking… if she could invite her mate over. To my house. While I was run ragged, she wanted a cosy chat with a friend. That was the final straw.
I turned off the hob, wiped my hands, and said, calm as ice, “Pack your things. Go home.” I won’t have her here anymore. My life’s hard enough without a “helper” like her. I’m not made of steel. Patience isn’t infinite. Let her explain to Mum why she can’t hide at her sister’s anymore. At least now, I can breathe—even if it’s just in the quiet chaos of raising two babies alone.
