At just 49, my younger sister seems convinced I’ve no life of my own and should be her son’s unpaid babysitter. Don’t get me wrong—I adore little Oliver, my brilliant nephew, but sacrificing every spare moment for him isn’t exactly how I pictured my late forties. This all started years ago, and somehow, it’s only gotten worse.
**How It Began**
My sister, Emma, is seven years my junior. Spoiled rotten as the baby of the family, she’s always had everyone bending over backwards for her. When Oliver came along, I was thrilled to be an aunt. He’s a cracking lad—sharp as a tack, full of mischief, and brilliant company. Weekends at mine became routine: trips to the park, baking sticky toffee puddings, the lot. But bit by bit, Emma started treating my help as her divine right.
After her divorce, she was left juggling single motherhood and a hectic job—often late, sometimes off to Manchester for work. I’ve tried to be supportive: picking Oliver up from school, helping with maths homework, the odd sleepover. But these days? She acts like it’s my civic duty. *”You’re free, aren’t you? No husband, no kids—might as well make yourself useful,”* she once quipped. I was gobsmacked. Just because I’m not wrangling a family of my own doesn’t mean my diary’s blank!
**Life at 49**
I’ve got a steady job as an accountant at a small firm in Bristol, hobbies that keep me sane—yoga, nights out with the girls, a bloody *watercolour* class, of all things. There’s a wee dream, too: saving up for a trip to Italy, Rome first, then Florence. Two years of careful budgeting, and Emma acts like my time’s a public resource. *”You’re his aunt—it’s what you do,”* she says, or my personal favourite: *”It’s not like you’re doing anything important.”*
Last week took the biscuit. She decided Oliver needed extra maths tuition—*evenings*, naturally—and expected me to ferry him clear across town. I said no, citing my yoga class (and, frankly, my sanity). Cue the guilt trip: *”You’re choosing hobbies over family? Doesn’t Oliver matter to you?”* Gut punch. Of course he matters, but since when does loving him mean I’m on standby like a free Uber?
**The Nephew I Love**
Oliver’s a gem—full of ridiculous playground gossip, obsessed with *Doctor Who*, and always up for a giggle over *Bluey*. But I’m not his mum. Playing part-time parent drains me, and worse, Emma’s offloading more onto me: *”You explain his rubbish grades, yeah? He listens to you.”* I did, but that’s *her* job, not mine.
I’ve tried talking to her—set limits, suggested hiring a sitter or roping in her in-laws (they live in Cheltenham, for heaven’s sake). She waved it off: *”Sitters cost a fortune, and you’re already brill at it.”* Translation: I’m free labour.
**Where’s the Balance?**
Now I’m stuck. I won’t row with Emma, and I’d hate Oliver thinking I’ve gone cold. But I’m knackered playing backup mum. Shouldn’t I get to live without guilt-tripped obligations? Maybe I’ve been too soft. Perhaps it’s time for firmer boundaries—but how without burning bridges?
If you’ve been here, spill the tea—how’d you handle it? Am I selfish, or is Emma taking the mick? Honestly, I could use a fresh perspective.
