**Diary Entry**
Oh dear, I just got off the phone with Mum, and my heart’s breaking. She was in tears, completely worn out from looking after my older sister’s kids.
“Maisy, I can’t do this anymore,” she sobbed, her voice cracking. “They won’t listen to a word I say! I told them not to go near the window, and Jack threw his toy tractor at me—right at my leg! The bruise is awful.”
I stood frozen, listening. How had it come to this? How had my sister Emily’s children pushed Mum to her limit?
It started two months ago when Emily moved back home with her two boys after catching her husband cheating. She walked in on him with another woman in their bedroom. No screaming, no drama—she just packed up, took the kids, and left. Filed for divorce the same day.
He never apologised, never even tried to explain. Worse, he accused *her* of being unfaithful and froze all their joint accounts. “Fine, have the divorce,” he said. “But you’ll get nothing until court orders it. Go ahead, try living on child support.” The hearing’s still six months away.
Emily hadn’t been working—she’d stayed home with the kids. Their benefits were under his name because he’d handled everything, so she was left with nothing. Just two boys and a suitcase full of hurt. Of course, Mum took them in. But she’s not as young as she used to be, and she can’t keep up with being a full-time nanny, cleaner, and emotional punching bag.
Emily’s parenting has always been… well, let’s just say unconventional. If the boys acted up, she never set boundaries or disciplined them—just distracted them. “Let them express themselves,” she’d say. Now those “expressive” children hurl toys at their grandmother, spill soup everywhere, and demand sweets for breakfast.
I tried talking to Emily once. Told her kids need structure, need to learn right from wrong. She shut me down fast. “Mind your own business until you have kids of your own.”
So I backed off. They’re her children. But now they’re reducing Mum to tears. The same Mum who used to bake them biscuits and spoil them rotten now dreads evenings. She says she can’t rest, can’t tidy up—just noise and chaos while Emily’s at work.
She’s about two months into a job at an online furniture shop—taking calls, processing orders. The pay’s barely enough, but it’s something. She can’t afford to miss work, not while she’s still on probation. So Mum shoulders it alone.
When she called today, I left work straightaway and rushed over. The bruise on her leg was worse than I’d imagined. Anger swelled in me. I marched into the room and raised my voice at the boys. Firm, but no shouting. Silence fell instantly.
Later, Mum whispered, “Thank you, love. I was at my wit’s end.” She’s strong, but she’s struggling. And I can’t move in—I’m renting a flat with a mate, saving up to buy my own place.
Emily’s put their names down for nursery, but the waiting list is miles long. For now, it’s all on Mum. And I’m terrified she’ll crack under the strain.
So what do I do? My heart aches for Mum. But Emily’s still my sister. The divorce, the job, the kids—she’s drowning too. Yet her “parenting” is turning everything upside down.
I can’t take the boys—financially, it’s impossible. But leaving things as they are means sacrificing Mum’s wellbeing.
Maybe it’s time for a hard talk with Emily. Lay it out plain: either she changes her approach, or the kids stay with their father for a while. Let *him* deal with them for a week.
Because if this goes on, we’ll lose Mum. And then where will any of us be?
What would you do? How do I tell my sister the truth without wrecking what’s left of us?
