Oh, Mum, I just can’t handle these kids anymore! They’re driving me mad!” Her voice crackled through the phone, thick with tears.
“Emily, I can’t go on like this!” Mum sounded exhausted, her words trembling. “They don’t listen to a word I say! I told them not to go near the window, and next thing I know, Oliver hurled his toy digger straight at me! Right into my leg! There’s a nasty bruise now.”
I froze, gripping the phone. How had it come to this? How had Lucy’s children—my older sister’s little ones—pushed Mum to this point?
It started two months ago when Lucy moved back in with Mum, dragging her two boys along. Her husband had the audacity to bring his mistress into their own home. Lucy found them in the bedroom. No screaming, no hysterics—just packed her bags, took the kids, and left. Filed for divorce the same day.
He never apologised, never made excuses. Worse, he accused Lucy of cheating, then cut her off from their joint accounts. “If you want a divorce, fine,” he’d sneered. “But you won’t see a penny until court sorts it. Go on, live off child support until then.” Court was still six months away.
Lucy had never worked—she’d stayed home with the boys. Child benefits were in his name because he handled all the paperwork. Now she had nothing. Just two kids, a suitcase of heartbreak, 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 play nanny, cleaner, and target for her grandsons’ tantrums.
Lucy’s parenting style has always been… unconventional, to put it mildly. When the boys acted up, she never set boundaries, never disciplined them. Just distracted them—like if they forgot, it didn’t matter. “Let them express themselves,” she’d say. Well, now these “self-expressing” children hurl toys at their grandmother, spill soup everywhere, and demand sweets for breakfast.
I tried talking to Lucy once. Told her kids need to learn limits. She cut me off, sharp: “Have your own first, then give advice.”
I backed off. They were her children. But now they’re bringing Mum to tears—the same woman who used to bake them biscuits and buy them treats with a smile. Now she dreads evenings. The boys race around screaming, leaving no peace for rest or tidying. And Lucy’s working.
She got a job at an online furniture shop—taking calls, processing orders. The pay’s barely enough, but it’s something. She can’t take time off—still on probation. So Mum’s left to cope alone.
When Mum called, I rushed over straight away. The bruise on her leg was awful. Rage burned through me. I marched into the boys’ room and raised my voice—firm, but not cruel. The silence was immediate.
Later, Mum whispered, “Thank you, love. I was at my wit’s end.” She’s strong, but she’s struggling. I can’t move in—I’m renting a flat with a mate, saving for my own place.
Lucy’s put the boys on the nursery waiting list, but it’s a long queue. Until then, it’s all on Mum. And I’m terrified she’ll break under it.
Now I’m stuck—what do I do? My heart aches for Mum. But Lucy’s my sister. Divorce, work, kids—she’s drowning too. Yet her “parenting” is wrecking everything around her.
I can’t take the boys. I’d barely scrape by. But leaving things as they are? That’ll cost Mum her health.
Maybe it’s time for a hard talk with Lucy. Lay it out: either she changes her ways, or the boys stay with their father for a while. Let him handle them for just one week.
Because if this goes on, we’ll lose Mum. And then we’ll all be left without our anchor.
What would you do in my place? How do I tell my sister the truth without tearing what’s left of us apart?
