“My mum curses me for not helping care for my sick brother”: After finishing sixth form, I packed my things and left home.
My mum doesn’t hold back—she eagerly floods my phone with angry messages. I’ve blocked countless numbers, but she always finds a new one to use. The words vary, but they’re always laced with curses. She wishes terrible things upon me—death, sickness—the kind of things no mother should ever say to her own daughter. Yet she doesn’t see it as wrong. For the past ten years, my brother Oliver has been her sole focus, while I’m only good for cleaning and looking after him.
Mum and I have different dads. She married again when I was twelve. I don’t remember my real father, but she never had a kind word for him. As a child, I believed he must’ve been awful because she constantly badmouthed him without reason. Now, history repeats itself.
My stepdad was decent—we never argued, kept a respectful distance. I didn’t see him as a father, but if I needed help—say, with homework—he never refused.
When I was thirteen, Mum had Oliver. It quickly became clear something was wrong, and they began endless doctor visits. At first, there was hope, but it faded fast. The doctors diagnosed developmental delays, then something incurable. My stepdad took it hard—ended up with a heart attack, spent a week in ICU, then passed. After that, my life became a nightmare.
I get why Mum struggled. Oliver screamed, hurt himself and others, acted erratically. But when social services suggested a care home, she refused, calling it her “cross to bear.”
She couldn’t manage alone, so half the burden fell on me. I’d come home from school, Mum would leave for her shift, and I’d be stuck with Oliver. It was exhausting, disgusting even—kids like him don’t control their bodily functions.
I never had a normal teen life. School, then Oliver, while Mum worked odd jobs. When she got back, I’d try doing homework over his screams.
Three times, social services offered help. Three times, Mum said no, insisting she could cope. But *I* couldn’t. After A-levels, when she told me university was off the table because I had to care for Oliver, I packed my bags and left.
I crashed at a mate’s, found work, then rented a room. Uni was out—no way to afford it, full-time or otherwise.
Nearly a decade on, I’ve had no contact. When life improved and I had spare cash, I tried reaching out—offered to send money. Instead, I got a tidal wave of hate. She screamed that I’d betrayed her, abandoned her alone with a sick child, and now dared to think money would fix it. She demanded I come home and help. The memories made me physically sick.
I told her I’d help financially but nothing more. She called me every name under the sun, and that was that. Now, she still finds ways to send venomous texts from new numbers. I’ve given up hoping we’ll ever reconcile.
After everything she’s said, I want nothing to do with her. We’ve both made our choices. But every time those messages pop up, it still guts me.
