“Mum berates me for not helping care for my sick brother”: After finishing secondary school, I packed my things and ran away from home.
My mother never hesitates to send me messages brimming with anger. I’ve blocked countless numbers, yet she always finds another. The words change, but the venom remains—curses, wishes of illness, even death. How could a mother speak to her own daughter like that? To her, it’s nothing wrong. For ten years now, my brother Tommy has been her only child. I exist only to clean and care for him.
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My brother and I have different fathers. Mum remarried when I was twelve. I don’t remember my real dad, and she never spoke a kind word of him. As a child, I thought he must have been dreadful, the way she dragged his name through the mud without cause. Now, I know better.
My stepfather was decent enough. We never quarrelled, treated each other with respect, though there was always distance. I never saw him as a father, but if I asked for help—say, with my schoolwork—he never refused.
When I was thirteen, Mum gave birth to Tommy. It quickly became clear something was wrong. She and my stepfather began the rounds of doctor’s visits. At first, there was hope, but as time passed, the news grew worse. The doctors spoke of developmental delays, then confirmed an incurable condition. My stepfather took it hardest. In the end, his heart gave out, and after a week in intensive care, he was gone. My life became a living hell.
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I could understand Mum’s grief. Raising a child who screamed, lashed out, or behaved in ways others found unsettling—it wore her down. Yet when she was offered a place for him in a care home, she refused, calling it her cross to bear.
She couldn’t manage alone, so half the burden fell to me. I’d come home from school, Mum would leave for work, and I’d be left with Tommy. It was exhausting, sometimes disgusting—children like him don’t always control their bodily needs.
I never had a normal adolescence. School, then caring for my brother while Mum took odd jobs. When she returned, I’d try to do my homework, though his constant wailing made it near impossible.
Three times, social services suggested Tommy go into care. Each time, Mum refused, insisting she could cope. But *I* couldn’t. After my A-levels, I packed my things and left the day she told me university wasn’t an option—my duty was to stay and look after Tommy.
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I stayed with a friend, found work, then rented a room. University was out of reach—neither the time nor the money for it. For nearly ten years now, I’ve lived apart, cutting all ties. When my fortunes improved, I tried reaching out, offering to send money to help. Instead, I was met with fury.
She screamed that I’d betrayed her, abandoned her alone with a sick child, never cared for her struggles. Now, she said, I was trying to buy my way back. She demanded I return home, resume my duty. The memories rushed in, and I felt sick.
I told her I’d help financially, but no more. She lashed out with such venom I swore never to speak to her again. Still, every so often, messages come—new numbers, same rage. I’ve stopped hoping for reconciliation.
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After the things she’s said, I want nothing to do with her. We’ve each made our choices. Yet every time another message arrives, the hurt flares anew.
