My mum shouts at me because I won’t help care for my sick brother: After finishing sixth form, I packed my things and ran away from home.
Mum never holds back—she happily floods my phone with angry messages. I’ve blocked countless numbers, but she always finds a new one. The words change, but they’re always laced with curses. She wishes terrible things upon me—illness, even death.
How can a mother say such things to her own daughter? She doesn’t see it as wrong. For the past ten years, my brother Oliver has been the only one who matters, while I’m just there to clean and look after him.
Mum and I have different fathers. She married again when I was twelve. I don’t remember my dad, but Mum never had a kind word about him. As a child, I thought he must be awful because she constantly dragged his name through the mud. Now, I’m in the same position.
My stepdad was decent—we never argued, stayed respectful, and kept our distance. I never saw him as a father, but if I ever needed help, like with homework, he never refused.
When I was thirteen, Mum had Oliver. It quickly became clear something was wrong, and she and my stepdad started rushing to doctors. At first, there was hope, but soon things worsened.
They diagnosed him with learning disabilities, then later confirmed a severe condition with no cure. My stepdad took it hard—ended up having a heart attack and died after a week in intensive care. That’s when my life became hell.
I get why Mum struggled. Oliver would scream, hurt himself and others, or act unpredictably. But when social services suggested specialised care, she refused, calling it her cross to bear.
She couldn’t handle it alone, so half the burden fell on me. After school, while Mum went to work, I stayed with Oliver. It was exhausting—and sometimes disgusting, as he couldn’t always control himself.
I never had a normal teenage life. School, then brother duty while Mum took odd jobs. When she got home, I’d try studying over his screams.
Social services offered help three times. Each time, Mum said no, insisting she could manage. But I couldn’t. After my A-levels, when she told me I couldn’t go to uni because I had to care for Oliver, I packed my bags and left.
I stayed with a friend, found work, then rented a room. Uni was off the table—I couldn’t afford it, full-time or part-time.
It’s been almost ten years since I lived at home or spoke to Mum. When things got better, I tried reaching out, even offered to send money. But all I got was rage—screaming that I’d betrayed her, abandoned her with a sick child, and now dared to think money fixed it. She demanded I come back. The memories made me sick.
I told her I’d help financially, but nothing more. She hurled abuse, and we never spoke again. Now, she still sends furious messages from new numbers. I’ve stopped 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 another message comes through, it still cuts deep.
