“My Own Sister? No Thanks…”
These days, I’ve stopped opening the door to my own sister. No calls, no visits, not a shred of concern—just radio silence. It might sound harsh, but only to those who don’t know the full story. I simply ran out of energy being her mother, maid, and unpaid therapist all at once. My sister drained me dry. You’d think sharing blood would mean something, but instead, she felt like an uninvited lodger, feasting on my patience without even a “cheers.”
Our family, to put it mildly, isn’t your typical bunch. Picture this: Mum and I got pregnant at almost the same time. I was twenty, she was forty-two. I had twins; she had her third. Then there’s our baby sister, Maisie, who was eighteen at the time. Chaos? Absolutely. Fun? Not really. Especially when you’re juggling two infants, a household, and a sister who treats your flat like her personal holiday retreat.
The twins weren’t exactly planned—well, twins, specifically—but my husband and I had wanted kids. I didn’t find out about the double surprise until my bump was already giving the game away. Still, we rolled with it, calling it fate’s little bonus. Fast-forward a year and three months, and my life is a whirlwind of nappies, mashed peas, tantrums, laundry, and the rare, sacred silence when the boys finally doze off.
And Maisie? She decided Mum’s rules were too much and did a runner. Where to? My place, naturally. Not for a weekend—oh no—but indefinitely. Officially, she was “helping with the nephews.” In reality? Glued to her phone, polishing off my meals, and complaining to Mum about how “exhausted” she was from all her “hard work.” Hypocritical? You bet.
University? Dropped out. Job? Quit. Ambitions? Nowhere in sight. But demands? She had enough for a cabinet minister. If I dared ask her to lift a finger, she’d sigh dramatically about how “Mum drained her” and how she “needed a break.” I bit my tongue, hoping she’d snap out of it and pitch in. Wishful thinking. All I got in return was laziness, zero gratitude, and an Olympic-level talent for moaning.
Then came the final straw. The boys were fussy, dinner was burning, the washing machine was thrashing away, and I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. And Maisie? She waltzed in and asked—brace yourself—if she could invite her mate over. While I was running on fumes, she fancied a natter. That did it.
I turned off the hob, wiped my hands, and said, dead calm, “Pack your bags. You’re going home.” I’ve had enough. Life’s hard enough without a “helper” who’s more like a human black hole. I’m only human, and my patience isn’t infinite. Let her explain to Mum why she can’t camp out at mine anymore. As for me? I’ll take the chaos of my boys over her nonsense any day—at least they don’t complain about having to exist.
