I trusted my daughters to watch their sick little brother for just two hours while I handled a work emergency. But when my phone buzzed and I saw a text from him—“Mom, can you come home, please?”—my whole world tilted. Something was terribly wrong.
What I discovered when I rushed back made me question everything I thought I knew about my own daughters.
And in that moment, I realized I was being forced into an impossible choice: choosing between my children.
But let me start from the beginning.
I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. My daughters, Kyra and Mattie, are in their early 20s. Fresh out of college, full of degrees that have not turned into real jobs, they came back home about five months ago after their apartment lease ended and their father cut them off financially.
And then there’s Jacob—my sweet seven-year-old boy. My youngest. The light of my life in ways I never thought possible until he came along.
Kyra and Mattie are from my first marriage. That marriage ended 12 years ago, and it was messy. Their father made sure to paint me as the villain, and they believed him. They chose to live with him after the divorce.
That meant I saw my girls only on weekends and holidays, always feeling like a stranger in their lives.
Then, four years later, I met William. He was kind, patient, steady—the kind of man I never thought I’d find after years of feeling not good enough. We married, and a year later Jacob was born.
William adored Jacob. He poured all his love into him. But my daughters? They never gave William a chance. Their father poisoned their minds against him, filling them with lies. They tolerated him, nothing more.
When they went off to college, their dad covered their rent—until he remarried. His new wife didn’t like Kyra and Mattie one bit. The fighting started, and before long, he cut them off financially.
That’s when they called me.
“Mom,” Kyra’s voice had been small, almost childlike again. “Dad cut us off. We can’t afford the apartment anymore, and we don’t have jobs yet. Can we stay with you? Just until we get on our feet?”
What could I say? They were my daughters. I opened my home to them.
But the timing was brutal. William was dying of cancer. And when he passed, the grief nearly destroyed me. The house we live in is filled with him—his favorite chair, his books, even the tools in the garage. Jacob still asks about him every day.
The girls were there for the funeral. They hugged me, whispered words of comfort. But I could see it in their eyes—they were relieved. Relieved William was gone.
I tried to tell myself grief makes you imagine things. But deep down, I knew.
When they moved back in, Mattie had stood in the hall with her suitcases. “Mom, where do you want these boxes?” she asked flatly.
“Take the two rooms upstairs on the left,” I told her. “Make yourselves at home.”
Jacob peeked around the corner, wide-eyed. “Are Kyra and Mattie staying forever?”
“For a little while, buddy,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Isn’t it nice? You get to have your big sisters here.”
He nodded but didn’t smile.
Living with my grown daughters again was strange. They were adults, but they fell into teenage habits—sleeping till noon, dirty dishes piling up, hours wasted scrolling on their phones. Meanwhile, I was juggling work, bills, and a grieving seven-year-old.
I didn’t ask much. No rent. No groceries. Just… kindness. Some acknowledgment of Jacob. But they gave him nothing but polite indifference.
When he tried to show them his drawings, they barely looked. When he talked about his day, they made excuses to leave.
One night, as I tucked him in, Jacob whispered, “Mom, why don’t Kyra and Mattie like me?”
My heart cracked. “They do like you, sweetheart. They’re just… going through a hard time right now.”
“Because of Dad?”
I kissed his forehead. “Yeah, baby. Because of their dad. Not William.”
But the truth? They resented him for existing. To them, he was the symbol of everything they lost.
Still, I told myself they just needed time.
But two days ago, everything shattered.
Jacob woke up with a fever, pale and trembling, throwing up. I called him in sick to school, tucked him into the couch with blankets, cartoons, and water nearby.
Then my phone rang. Work emergency. My boss’s voice was sharp: “Sandra, this client represents 30 percent of our revenue. If we lose them, layoffs are coming. I need you here.”
I looked at my sick son. My heart screamed no. But my brain screamed we can’t lose this job.
So I turned to my daughters. Kyra was scrolling on her phone. Mattie had her nose in a book.
“I need you two to watch Jacob,” I said. “He’s sick. He threw up. Just check on him, make sure he’s okay. Please.”
Kyra nodded. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
I knelt by Jacob. “Buddy, I have to run to work real quick, but Kyra and Mattie will stay with you, okay?”
He nodded weakly. “Okay, Mom.”
“If you need anything, call for them.”
I kissed him and left, guilt heavy in my chest.
An hour later, my phone buzzed.
“Mom, can you come home, please?”
I called him—no answer. I texted—“What’s wrong?”
His reply: “I threw up again and I called for Kyra and Mattie but nobody came.”
Panic gripped me. I called my daughters. Both lines busy. My stomach dropped.
I didn’t think. I just ran out of the meeting, muttering apologies, grabbed my bag, and sped home. My mind was screaming: What if he’s choking? What if he fell? What if something happened and they weren’t there?
I burst through the door. “Jacob?!”
“Mom!” His voice was small, weak, coming from upstairs.
I found him on the floor, vomit on his shirt, tears streaking his face.
“Oh, baby.” I dropped to my knees, scooping him up. “I’m so sorry.”
“I called for them,” he whispered. “I called and called… but they didn’t come.”
Rage boiled inside me. I cleaned him up, got him into fresh pajamas, and tucked him into bed. Then I went hunting.
Kyra was outside on the patio scrolling her phone. Mattie was in the kitchen heating something in the microwave.
“Where the hell were you?!” I exploded.
Kyra looked up, startled. “Mom? We were here the whole time—”
“Jacob was calling for you! He threw up, he was crying, and he had to text me because you ignored him!”
Mattie frowned. “I was using the blender. I couldn’t hear.”
Kyra shrugged. “I didn’t hear either.”
“You didn’t hear him?” My voice shook. “He was screaming for you.”
“We’re sorry, okay? We didn’t mean to miss him.” Kyra’s tone was dismissive.
“Show me your phones,” I snapped.
They froze. “Mom—” Mattie rolled her eyes.
“Now!”
I checked. There it was—Jacob’s messages. “Kyra, I threw up. Can you help me?” Read. No reply.
“Mattie, I need help. I’m scared.” Read. No reply.
My hands shook. “You read his messages. And you did nothing.”
“We were busy,” Kyra muttered.
“Busy? He’s seven! He was sick, terrified, begging you for help. And you ignored him!”
“You’re being dramatic,” Mattie snapped.
“No. What’s dramatic is the fact that you resent a child so much you couldn’t bother to walk upstairs and comfort him.”
“That’s not fair!” Kyra’s voice broke.
“What’s not fair is that Jacob lost his dad, and instead of having sisters who care, he has you. You’re pathetic.”
Mattie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re putting all this on us like we’re the parents. We didn’t sign up for this.”
“I asked you for two hours,” I shot back. “Two hours of kindness. And you couldn’t even do that.”
“We said sorry!” Kyra cried.
“Sorry isn’t enough. You have one week to find somewhere else to live.”
They froze.
“What?” Mattie whispered.
“You heard me. One week. Pack your things.”
Kyra’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re choosing him over us.”
“No. I’m choosing not to let my son be neglected in his own home.”
They stormed upstairs. Doors slammed.
It’s been two days since. They move around like ghosts, silent, cold. I know they’re trying to guilt me. And part of me aches—they’re my daughters. I love them.
But last night, Jacob curled up beside me in bed.
“Mom?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Are Kyra and Mattie leaving because of me?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “No, sweetheart. They’re leaving because of choices they made. Not you.”
But I don’t know if he believed me.
And now I’m left asking myself: Did I overreact? Or did I do what any mother would do—protect her son when his own sisters let him down in the cruelest way?
Because right now, I’m drowning in doubt.