“A Sister? No Thanks, I’m Done…”
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 ran out of strength trying to be a mother, a maid, and a free therapist all at once. My sister drained me dry. Blood or not, she might as well have been a stranger who fed off my energy and never even said thank you.
Our family is, to put it mildly, unconventional. Imagine this—Mum and I got pregnant at nearly the same time. I was twenty; she was forty-two. I had twins; Mum had her third child. Then there’s our younger sister, Emily, who was eighteen at the time. 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 husband and I had planned for our boys, though the twins were a surprise. I found out late, when my belly made it impossible to hide. But we took it in stride—a gift, really. For the past year and three months, my life has been non-stop: nappies, mashed peas, tantrums, cleaning, laundry, cooking, and the rare quiet moments when the little ones finally sleep.
And Emily? She decided Mum’s rules were too much and ran away. Where to? My place. Not for a few days, mind you—indefinitely. Officially, she was “helping with the nephews.” In reality? Glued to her phone, finishing my meals, and telling Mum how “exhausted” she was from “helping me out.” Hypocrisy? You bet.
University? Dropped out. Job? Quit. Ambitions? None. Yet complaints? As plentiful as a politician’s promises. If I dared ask her to lift a finger to help, she’d whine about how “Mum drained her” and how she “needed a break.” I tried ignoring it, biting my tongue, hoping she’d snap out of it. Fat chance. Instead? Zero initiative, zero gratitude, and a mountain of demands.
Then one day, I snapped. The kids were fussy, dinner was burning, the laundry was piling up, and I hadn’t eaten a thing. And what does Emily ask? If she can invite her mate over—to my home—while I’m barely keeping it together. That was the final straw.
I turned off the hob, wiped my hands, and calmly said, “Pack your things. Go home.” I’m done having her here. Life’s hard enough without a “helper” like that. I’m only human, and patience runs out. Now she can explain to Mum why she’s not hiding at my place anymore. As for me? I’ll take the chaos of my boys any day—at least I’ll breathe easier without her around.
