Oh, sweetheart, I just can’t take these kids anymore! They’re driving me up the wall! Mum sobbed down the phone, completely worn out by her eldest daughter’s children.
“Molly, I can’t go on like this!” Her voice cracked with exhaustion, and I could hear the tears in her words. “They just won’t listen! I told them to stay away from the window, and little Alfie hurled a metal toy tractor straight at me—right into my leg! I’ve got a massive bruise.”
I froze, listening to her desperate confession. How had it come to this? How had my older sister Lily’s children pushed Mum to her breaking point?
It all started two months ago when Lily came back home with her two boys. Her husband had the nerve to bring his mistress right into their house. Lily caught them in the bedroom. No screaming, no drama—just packed their things, took the kids, and walked out. She filed for divorce the same day.
Her husband didn’t apologise, didn’t even try to explain. Instead, he accused Lily of cheating and cut her off from all their joint accounts. “If you want a divorce, fine,” he said. “But the money stays locked until the courts sort it. Go ahead, live on child support.” And the court date won’t be for another six months.
Lily never worked—she stayed home with the boys. The child benefits were registered under her husband’s name because he’d handled all the paperwork. She was left with nothing. Just two kids, a suitcase full of hurt, and nowhere to go. Of course, Mum took them in. But she’s not as young as she used to be, and she doesn’t have the energy to be a full-time nanny, cleaner, and punching bag for her grandsons.
Lily’s parenting has always been… let’s say, unconventional. When the boys acted up, she never set boundaries, never scolded them. She just distracted them—“Oh, look at this!”—as if that made the problem go away. “Let them express themselves,” she’d say. And now, those “expressive” children are throwing toys at their gran, spilling soup everywhere, and demanding chocolate for breakfast.
I tried talking to Lily once, telling her kids need to understand right from wrong. She cut me off sharply: “Have a child of your own first, then you can lecture me.”
I backed off. Her kids, her choice. But now they’re bringing Mum to tears—Mum, who used to bake them biscuits and buy them presents with such joy, now dreads every evening. She says she can’t clean, can’t rest. The boys tear through the house, screaming, throwing tantrums. And Lily’s working now.
She got a job at an online furniture shop—answering calls, processing orders. The pay’s pitiful, but it’s something. She can’t take time off—she’s still on probation. So Mum’s left to cope alone.
When she called me, I rushed over straight away. The bruise on her leg was awful. Rage flooded through me. I marched into the living room and raised my voice—firm, but not cruel. Silence fell instantly.
Mum whispered later, “Thank you, love. I was at my wits’ end.” She’s a strong woman, but this is too much. I can’t move in—I rent a flat with a friend, saving to buy my own place.
Lily’s put the boys on the nursery waiting list. But the queue’s long, and until then, it’s all on Mum. I’m terrified she’ll snap under the pressure.
Now, I’m stuck—what do I do? My heart breaks for Mum, but Lily’s my sister. Divorce, work, the kids—she’s struggling too. But her permissiveness is turning everything upside down.
I can’t take the boys. I can’t afford it. But leaving things as they are means sacrificing Mum’s health.
Maybe it’s time for a firm talk with Lily—lay it out: either she sorts their behaviour, or the boys go to their dad’s for a while. Let him try handling them for a week.
Because if this goes on, we’ll lose Mum. And then none of us will have any foundation left.
What would you do in my place? How do I tell my sister the truth without wrecking what’s left of our family?
