“Oh, love, I can’t take it anymore with these kids! They’re driving me mad!” my mother sobbed down the phone, utterly worn out by her eldest daughter’s children.
“Maisy, I just can’t go on like this!” Mum’s voice cracked, tears trembling in every word. “Those children won’t listen to a word I say! I tell them not to go near the window, and what does Alfie do? Chucks a metal toy lorry straight at me! Hit me right in the leg—it’s bruised something awful!”
I froze, heart hammering. How had it come to this? How had my sister Audrey’s children worn Mum down so completely?
It started two months ago, when Audrey came rushing back home to Mum’s with the kids in tow. Her husband had the sheer audacity to bring his mistress right into their home. Audrey caught them—no screaming, no scene, just silent fury as she packed their bags, swept up the children, and walked out. She filed for divorce the same day.
No apology from him. No excuses. Worse—he accused *her* of cheating, then froze her out of their joint accounts. “Want a divorce? Have it,” he sneered. “But good luck getting a penny before the courts decide. File for child support—see how far that gets you.” The hearing wouldn’t be for another six months.
Audrey had been a stay-at-home mum. The child benefits were in his name—he’d handled all that. She was left with nothing. Two kids, a suitcase, and a world of hurt. Of course Mum took them in. But Mum wasn’t as young as she used to be, wasn’t as strong—and now she was a full-time nanny, a cleaner, a target for her grandkids’ tantrums.
Audrey’s parenting had always been… let’s say *unconventional*. When the kids acted up, she never set boundaries, never corrected them. Just redirected—distract them, and they’ll forget. “Let them express themselves,” she’d say. Now those “self-expressing” children were hurling toys at their gran, spilling soup on the carpet, demanding sweets for breakfast.
I’d tried talking to Audrey once. Said kids needed to know right from wrong. She’d cut me off sharp: “Have your own first, then start handing out advice.”
So I backed off. They were her kids. But now they were breaking Mum. The same Mum who used to bake them biscuits and spoil them rotten now dreaded every evening. She couldn’t tidy, couldn’t rest—the boys tore through the house, screeching, throwing fits. And Audrey? She was working.
Just started at an online furniture shop—taking calls, processing orders. Pennies for pay, but better than nothing. She couldn’t afford to slip up—still on probation. So Mum coped alone.
When she rang me, I left work immediately. The bruise on her leg was dark and vicious. Rage burned through me. I marched into the living room and snapped at the boys—sharp, but no shouting, no smacks. Silence fell like a slammed door.
Later, Mum whispered, “Thank you, love. I was at my wit’s end.” She’s strong, but she’s struggling. I can’t move in—I’m in a room share in London, scraping together savings for my own place.
Audrey’s put the kids on the nursery waiting list, but it’s months long. Until then? It’s all on Mum. And I’m terrified that one day, she’ll just… break.
Now I’m left wondering—what do I do? Mum’s misery guts me. But Audrey’s my sister. Divorce, work, kids—she’s drowning too. Yet her “parenting” is setting fire to everything around her.
I can’t take the kids. Financially, it’s impossible. But leaving things as they are? That’s sacrificing Mum’s health.
Maybe it’s time for a hard talk. Lay it bare: either she reins them in, or they stay with their father for a bit. Let *him* handle a week of this chaos.
Because if this goes on? We’ll lose Mum. And then we’ll *all* be left without her.
What would you do? How do I tell my sister the truth—without tearing what’s left of us apart?
