I trusted my daughters to watch their sick little brother for just two hours while I handled a work emergency. When he texted me begging me to come home, I knew something was terribly wrong. What I found when I rushed back shattered me and made me question everything I thought I knew about my girls.
I never imagined I’d be put in a position where I had to choose between my children.
But let me start at the beginning.
I’m a 45-year-old mom of three. My daughters, Kyra and Mattie, are both in their twenties now. Fresh out of college, yet with no real jobs and no real direction, they ended up back home five months ago after their lease fell through and their dad stopped paying their rent.
And then there’s Jacob. My sweet seven-year-old boy. My miracle. The light of my life in ways I never thought possible until he came along.
The girls are from my first marriage. That divorce was ugly—so ugly that their father twisted the truth until I was the villain in their eyes. For years, they believed him. They chose to live with him, leaving me with only weekends and holidays.
It broke me. Imagine being a visitor in your own daughters’ lives.
Years later, I met William. He was kind, gentle, patient. Everything I had never known I needed. We married, and soon Jacob was born. William adored that boy. He was the best father Jacob could ever have.
But Kyra and Mattie? They never warmed up to him. Their father made sure of that. He poisoned them against William, painting him as the man who “ruined” our family. They tolerated him, but the coldness was always there.
When they went off to college, their father paid their rent. But then he remarried a woman who openly disliked my daughters. Their fights grew nasty, and soon, he cut them off completely. That’s when I got the phone call.
I’ll never forget Kyra’s voice, small and desperate:
“Mom, we need help. Dad cut us off. We can’t afford rent. Can we stay with you? Just until we figure things out?”
What could I say? They were my children. Of course, I said yes.
At the same time, William was fighting his last battle with cancer. Watching him slip away gutted me. When he died, the grief hollowed me. Jacob was devastated, too—he still asks about his dad every single day. And somehow, I have to be strong for him while falling apart inside myself.
The girls came back during this time. They were respectful at William’s funeral, but I saw something in their eyes—something almost calm. Almost… relieved. I told myself I was imagining it. Grief can make you paranoid. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t wrong.
“Mom, where should we put these boxes?” Mattie asked that day, her tone flat, like moving back into her mother’s house was the last thing she wanted.
“Just take the two rooms upstairs on the left,” I told her. “Make yourselves at home.”
Jacob had peeked around the corner, curious.
“Are Kyra and Mattie staying forever?”
“For a little while, buddy,” I said, brushing his hair back. “Isn’t it nice to have your big sisters around?”
He nodded, but there was no smile.
Living with them again was… strange. They were grown women, yet they slipped right back into their teenage selves—sleeping till noon, leaving messes everywhere, glued to their phones while I worked, paid the bills, and held a grieving child together.
I didn’t ask for much. I didn’t demand rent, I didn’t ask them to pay for food. All I wanted was for them to be kind to their little brother.
But they weren’t.
They said polite things like “good morning” or “how was school?” but it wasn’t real. When Jacob showed them his dinosaur drawings or tried to tell them about his day, they gave tight smiles and excuses to leave the room.
It crushed me to watch my sweet boy try so hard to be loved by his sisters, only to be brushed aside.
One night, he asked me, “Mom, why don’t Kyra and Mattie like me?”
I nearly cried. “They do, sweetheart. They’re just going through a hard time.”
“Because of Dad?”
I kissed his forehead. “Yeah, baby. Because of Dad. Their dad. Not William.”
But the truth was uglier. They resented him. They saw him as the symbol of everything they lost. And Jacob—just a sweet, sensitive boy who loved dinosaurs—didn’t deserve that.
I told myself they just needed time. Months passed. Nothing changed.
Then came the day everything broke.
Jacob woke up with a fever, pale and weak, nausea rolling over him in waves. I called him in sick to school, made him a little nest of blankets on the couch, and kept cartoons on to distract him.
That’s when my phone rang. It was my boss. A furious client was threatening to pull their contract.
“I can’t leave Jacob,” I said.
“Sandra, if we lose them, there will be layoffs. I need you here.”
I looked at my boy—so small and miserable—and then at Kyra and Mattie lounging in the living room.
“I need you two to watch Jacob for a couple of hours,” I said. “He’s sick. Please just check on him, make sure he’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Kyra said without looking up from her phone.
I knelt by Jacob. “Buddy, I have to go, but your sisters will stay with you. If you need anything, call for them, okay?”
He whispered, “Okay, Mom.”
I kissed him and left, my stomach heavy with guilt.
An hour later, my phone buzzed. It was Jacob.
“Mom, can you come home please?”
My heart raced. I called. No answer. I texted: “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
His reply nearly made me drop the phone:
“I threw up again and I called for Kyra and Mattie but nobody came.”
Terror clawed at me. I called my daughters—both lines busy. I didn’t think. I ran out of that meeting, drove like a madwoman, praying my boy was okay.
I burst through the door. “Jacob?!”
“Mom!” His voice was faint, upstairs.
I found him sitting on the floor in his room, vomit on his shirt, tears streaking his little face.
“Oh, baby,” I cried, pulling him into my arms. “I’m so sorry.”
“I called for them,” he whispered. “I called and called, but nobody came.”
I cleaned him up, got him fresh clothes, tucked him back into bed with a bucket nearby.
Then I stormed downstairs.
Kyra was outside, scrolling her phone on the patio. Mattie was in the kitchen making food like nothing happened.
“Where the hell were you?!” I screamed.
Kyra looked up, startled. “Mom? What—”
“Jacob was sick. He was crying for you. He texted you! Both of you! And you ignored him.”
Mattie frowned. “We were here. I didn’t hear him.”
“Neither did I,” Kyra added quickly. “I was outside.”
“You didn’t hear him?” My voice was shaking. “He was screaming for help!”
“Mom, calm down,” Kyra said. “We didn’t mean to miss him. It was an accident.”
“Did he text you?” I demanded.
“No,” Kyra said too quickly.
“Show me your phones.”
They froze. Mattie rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”
“SHOW ME!” I snapped.
Reluctantly, they handed them over.
On Kyra’s phone: Jacob’s text. Read. No reply.
On Mattie’s: The same. Read. No reply.
I felt my hands tremble. “You read his messages. You knew he needed you. And you did nothing.”
“Mom, we were busy!” Kyra protested.
“Busy?” I hissed. “A seven-year-old was vomiting and crying for help, and you couldn’t be bothered. That’s not busy. That’s cruel.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Mattie muttered.
That was it. The last straw.
“You have one week. One week to pack and leave my house.”
“What?!” Mattie gasped.
“You heard me. One week.”
“Mom, where are we supposed to go?” Kyra cried.
“I don’t care. You’re adults. Figure it out.”
Kyra sobbed, “You’re choosing him over us.”
“No. I’m choosing to protect my son from neglect in his own home.”
It’s been two days. They won’t speak to me. They walk around like ghosts, slamming doors, trying to make me feel guilty.
And maybe a part of me does. They’re still my daughters. I still love them. But then I see Jacob—quieter now, more withdrawn. He doesn’t ask for them anymore.
Last night, he curled up beside me in bed. “Mom, are Kyra and Mattie leaving because of me?”
My heart broke. “No, sweetheart. They’re leaving because of the choices they made. Not you.”
He nodded, but I don’t think he believed me.
Now I lie awake, torn apart. Did I overreact? Did I just push my daughters away forever? Or did I do what any mother would do to protect her child?
Because one thing is clear: I won’t let bitterness and resentment poison Jacob’s only safe place—his home.
But I can’t stop asking myself—did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?