“Mum berates me for not helping care for my sick brother”: After finishing sixth form, I packed my things and ran away from home.
My mum doesn’t hold back—she eagerly floods my phone with furious messages. I’ve blocked countless numbers, but each time, she finds another. The words change, but the curses don’t. She wishes horrors upon me, nightmares of death and sickness.
How could a mother say such things to her own daughter? She sees no wrong in it. For ten years, only my brother Alfie has existed to her. I’m just the one who cleans, who tends to him.
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My brother and I share different fathers. Mum remarried when I was twelve. I don’t remember my own dad, but she never had a kind word for him. As a child, I believed him evil, because she smeared his name without reason. Now, it’s happening to me.
My stepdad was ordinary—we rarely argued, kept a polite distance. I never called him “Dad,” but if I needed help—say, with my homework—he never refused.
At thirteen, Mum gave birth to Alfie. Soon, it was clear something was wrong. Doctors came and went. At first, there was hope. Then, nothing but bad news. First, they called it a learning disability. Then, the final, crushing diagnosis: incurable. My stepdad couldn’t bear it. A heart attack took him within a week. That’s when my life became hell.
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I understand Mum’s pain. A child who screamed, lashed out, hurt himself and others—never still, never quiet. But when they suggested placing him in a care home, she refused. “This is my cross to bear,” she said.
She couldn’t manage alone, though. Half the burden fell on me. School ended, Mum left for work, and I stayed with Alfie. It was exhausting, humiliating—children like him don’t always control their bodies.
I had no normal teen life. School, then Alfie, while Mum worked odd jobs. When she returned, I’d scramble to do homework, deafened by his wails. Three times, they offered to take him. Each time, she refused. “I’m coping,” she lied. But I wasn’t. After sixth form, I packed my things and fled the day she told me university wasn’t an option—Alfie needed me more.
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I stayed with a mate, found work, then rented a room. No loans, no grants—studies were out of reach. For almost a decade, I’ve kept away. When life improved, when I had a little extra, I reached out. I’d send money, I thought. Help from afar. Instead, I met a wall of hatred.
She screamed betrayal. How dare I leave her alone? How dare I think money fixed anything? She demanded I return, take up my old duties. The memories rushed back—the stench, the noise, the weight of it all. I nearly vomited.
I told her I’d help financially, nothing more. The insults flew. We never spoke again. Now, her rage still finds me, creeping through new numbers. I’ve given up hope she’ll ever change.
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After all she’s written, I want nothing to do with her. We’ve both made choices. But when those messages arrive, my stomach still twists. Some wounds never close, do they?
