“My Mum Berates Me for Not Helping Care for My Ill Brother”: After finishing secondary school, I packed my things and ran away from home.
My mum doesn’t hold back—she eagerly sends me furious messages. I’ve blocked countless numbers, but she always finds another. The words change, but they’re never without curses. My own mother wishes terrible things upon me—death and sickness.
How could a mother say such things to her own daughter? She doesn’t see anything wrong in it. For ten years, my brother Oliver has been her only concern, while I’ve been expected to clean and look after him.
My brother and I have different fathers. Mum remarried when I was twelve. I barely remember my dad, but Mum never had a kind word about him. As a child, I thought he must’ve been awful, considering how she always dragged his name through the mud. Now, history repeats itself.
My stepdad was ordinary—we didn’t argue, kept a respectful distance. I never saw him as a father, but if I asked for help—homework, for instance—he never refused.
When I was thirteen, Mum gave birth to Oliver. It quickly became clear something was wrong, and she and my stepdad began visiting doctors. At first, there was hope, but things only worsened.
The doctors diagnosed developmental delays, then a condition with no cure. My stepdad took it hard—he suffered a heart attack and died a week later in intensive care. From then on, my life became hell.
I understand Mum’s struggle. Raising a child who screamed, hurt himself and others, or acted erratically was unbearable. But 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 responsibility fell on me. After school, Mum went to work, and I stayed with Oliver. It was exhausting—sometimes disgusting—as he couldn’t control himself.
I never had a normal teenage life. School, then caring for Oliver while Mum worked odd jobs. When she returned, I’d do homework to the sound of his screams.
Three times, she was advised to place him in a care home. Each time, she said she’d manage. But *I* couldn’t. After finishing secondary school, I packed my things and left when she told me I couldn’t go to university—I had to care for Oliver instead.
I stayed with a friend, found work, then rented a room. University became impossible—I couldn’t afford it, full-time or part-time.
For nearly ten years, I’ve lived apart, cutting contact. When life improved, I tried reaching out, offering financial help. But I was met with hatred—she called me a traitor, accused me of abandoning her, and demanded I return. The memories made me sick.
I told her I’d help with money, nothing more. She cursed me, and we never spoke again. Now, she still sends angry messages from unknown numbers. I’ve stopped hoping for reconciliation.
After everything she’s said, I want nothing to do with her. We’ve both made our choices. Yet, each message still cuts deep.
**Sometimes walking away isn’t selfish—it’s survival.**
