I trusted my daughters to keep an eye on their sick little brother for just two hours while I handled a work crisis. When he texted me begging to come home, I knew something was seriously wrong. What I saw when I rushed back made me question everything I thought I knew about my daughters.
I never thought I would have to choose between my children.
Let me start over. I am a 45-year-old mother of three. My daughters Kat and Jo are both in their 20s now. They just graduated from college with degrees they cannot seem to use. They came back home five months ago after their apartment lease ended and the job market beat them down.
Then there is Arlo, my seven-year-old son. He became the light of my life in ways I never imagined until he was born.
The girls are from my first marriage. Their father and I divorced 12 years ago, and honestly, it was ugly. He painted me as the villain in their minds, and for years, they believed him. They decided to live with him after the split.
I saw them on weekends and holidays, always feeling like a stranger in my own daughters’ lives.
Four years after the divorce, I met Atticus. He was kind and patient and everything I needed after years of feeling inadequate. We got married, and a year later, Arlo was born. Atticus loved that boy with every part of him.
But my daughters? They never gave Atticus a chance. Their father made sure of that. He filled their heads with lies about why our marriage ended, who Atticus was, and what kind of “selfish” mother I had become.
The girls were polite when they visited, but cold and distant. They tolerated Atticus because they had to, not because they wanted to.
When they went off to college, their father paid their rent. It was the one thing he did consistently. But last year, he married his coworker. His new wife disliked my daughters right away. The fights started almost immediately, and he stopped paying their rent within months.
That is when they called me.
“Mom, we need help,” Kat had said over the phone, her voice small in a way I had not heard since she was little. “Dad cut us off. We cannot afford the apartment anymore, and we do not have jobs yet. Can we stay with you? Just until we get on our feet?”
What was I supposed to say? They were my daughters. So I said yes, despite my own pain over Atticus’s worsening health.
When he lost his battle with cancer, the grief was deep and brutal. It hollowed me out in ways I am still trying to understand. The house we live in was his. Everything in it carries his memory. Arlo asks about his dad every single day, and I have to swallow my own sorrow to help him through his.
The girls arrived during this nightmare. They were respectful at Atticus’s funeral. They hugged me and said comforting words. But I could see the calm in their eyes. They were relieved Atticus was gone.
I told myself I was imagining it. That grief makes you see things that are not there. But deep down, I knew I was mistaken.
“Mom, where do you want these boxes?” Jo had asked the day they moved in, standing in the hallway with two suitcases and a weary expression.
“Just take the two rooms upstairs on the left,” I said. “Make yourselves at home.”
Arlo had peeked around the corner, curious. “Are Kat and Jo staying forever?”
“For a little while, buddy,” I told him, ruffling his hair. “Isn’t it nice? To have your big sisters around?”
He nodded, but he did not smile.
Living with my daughters again was strange. They were adults now, but they fell back into teenage patterns almost immediately. They slept until noon, left dishes piled in the sink, and spent hours scrolling through their phones while I juggled work, bills, and a grieving seven-year-old who still cried for his father at night.
I did not ask them for much. I did not charge them rent or demand they contribute to groceries. I just asked that they be kind and acknowledge that their little brother existed.
But they did not. Not really.
They were polite, sure. They said good morning. They occasionally asked him about school. But there was no warmth or genuine interest. When Arlo tried to show them his drawings or tell them about his day, they smiled tightly and found excuses to leave the room.
It hurt. God, it hurt to watch my son try so hard to connect with his sisters, only to be met with indifference and neglect.
“Why don’t Kat and Jo like me?” he asked me one night as I tucked him into bed.
My heart cracked. “They do like you, sweetheart. They are just… going through a hard time right now.”
“Because of Dad?”
I kissed his forehead. “Yeah, baby. Because of Dad. Their dad. Not Atticus.”
It was easier than telling him the truth, which was complicated and unfair. His sisters resented him for being born. They blamed Atticus for destroying our family, even though my first marriage had ended long before Atticus came into the picture. To them, Arlo was a symbol of everything they had lost.
But he was just a kid. A sweet, sensitive boy who loved dinosaurs, asked too many questions, and still believed the world was good. He did not deserve their coldness.
“Maybe they will warm up,” I told myself. “Maybe they just need time.”
I gave them time. Months of it. But nothing changed. And two days ago, everything came crashing down.
Arlo woke up sick with a fever and waves of nausea that left him pale and shaky. I called him in sick to school and settled him on the couch with blankets piled around him and his favorite cartoons playing softly. He was miserable, but at least he was resting.
Then my phone rang. It was a work emergency. A client was furious about a delayed shipment and was threatening to pull their contract. My boss needed me to come in immediately and smooth things over.
“I cannot leave Arlo,” I said, glancing at my son, who was curled up under his blanket, pale and sweaty.
“Marion, this client represents 30 percent of our revenue. If we lose them, we are looking at layoffs. I need you here.”
I closed my eyes. I could not afford to lose my job. Not now. Not with two unemployed daughters and a little son under my roof and a mortgage to pay.
I hung up and looked at Kat and Jo, who were both in the living room. Kat was scrolling on her phone while Jo was reading a book.
“I need you two to watch Arlo for a couple of hours,” I said. “He is sick. He threw up this morning. He just needs someone to check on him and make sure he is okay. Can you do that?”
Kat glanced up. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
“I will be back as soon as I can,” I said, grabbing my purse. I knelt beside Arlo. “Hey, buddy. I have to run to work real quick, but Kat and Jo are going to stay with you, okay?”
He nodded weakly. “Okay, Mom.”
“If you need anything, just call for them. They will be right here.”
I kissed his forehead and left, my stomach churning with guilt. I trusted my daughters. I should have known better. An hour later, my phone buzzed with a text from Arlo:
“Mom, can you come home, please?”
My pulse spiked. I immediately called him. No answer. I tried again. Still nothing.
I texted back: “What’s wrong, sweetie? Are you okay?”
Another text came through: “I threw up again and I called for Kat and Jo but nobody came.”
Panic clawed at my chest. The girls were home with Arlo. They were supposed to be watching him. I fumbled for my phone and called Kat, but the line was busy. I tried Jo next, my hands shaking, and got nothing but a busy signal.
I did not waste another second. I excused myself from the client meeting, stammering through an apology before turning to my boss and telling him I had a family emergency. I grabbed my purse and left, practically running to my car. I drove home faster, my mind racing through every terrible possibility.
What if he choked? What if he fell? What if something happened and they were not there?
I burst through the front door, my heart hammering. “Arlo?!”
“Mom!” His voice came from upstairs, small and scared.
I took the stairs two at a time and found him in his room, sitting on the floor beside his bed. There was vomit on his shirt and tears on his face.
“Oh, baby.” I dropped to my knees and pulled him into my arms. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“I called for them,” he whispered. “I called and called… but they did not come.”
Rage surged through me. I stood, lifting Arlo with me. “Let’s get you cleaned up first, okay?”
I got him into the bathroom, helped him out of his soiled clothes, and wiped his face with a cool cloth. He was shaking.
“Where are they, Mom?”
“I don’t know, baby. But I’m going to find out.”
I got Arlo settled in clean pajamas and back into bed with a bucket beside him. Then I went downstairs.
I found Kat in the backyard garden, lounging on one of the patio chairs with her phone glued to her hand. Jo was in the kitchen, casually putting something in the microwave.
“Where the hell were you?” I yelled, my voice shaking.
Kat looked up, startled. “Mom? You were supposed to be at the…”
“Arlo was calling for you. He threw up. He was crying. He texted me because neither of you bothered to check.”
Jo walked in from the kitchen. “We were here the whole time.”
“Then why did not you answer him?”
“I did not hear him,” Kat said defensively. “I was down here.”
“And I was using the blender,” Jo added. “The kitchen appliances were loud. I could not hear anything.”
I stared at them. “You could not hear him? He was screaming for you.”
“We are sorry, okay?” Kat snapped. “We did not mean to miss him. It was an accident.”
I wanted to believe them. God, I wanted to. But something in their casual and dismissive voices felt wrong.
“Did he text you?” I asked.
They exchanged a glance. “No,” Kat said.
“Show me your phones.”
“Mom, come on,” Jo said, rolling her eyes.
“Show me your damn phones,” I demanded.
Reluctantly, they handed them over. I opened Kat’s messages first. There it was. A text from Arlo, sent 20 minutes before I left my office: “Kat I threw up. Can you please help me?”
The message was read. But there was no response.
I opened Jo’s phone. Same thing: “Jo, I need help. I am scared.”
Read. No response.
I looked up at them, my hands trembling. “You read his messages. You knew he needed help. And you did NOTHING.”
“Mom, we were busy,” Kat started.
“Busy? He is seven years old. He was sick and scared and crying for you… and you ignored him. You let him suffer.”
“You are being dramatic,” Jo said.
“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you deliberately ignored your little brother when he needed you most. And do you know why? Because you hate his father. Because you cannot let go of your resentment long enough to show basic human decency to a child.”
“That’s not fair,” Kat retorted, her voice breaking.
“What’s not fair is that Arlo lost his father five months ago and instead of having sisters who support him, he has you two. You’re pathetic. Both of you.”
Jo’s face twisted. “You’re putting all this responsibility on us like we’re the parents. We did not sign up for this.”
“I asked you to watch him for two hours. TWO HOURS. That’s not parenting. That’s basic human kindness. And you could not even do that.”
“We said we were sorry,” Kat defended.
“Sorry does not cut it. You have one week to find somewhere else to live.”
They both froze.
“What?” Jo whispered.
“You heard me. One week. Pack your things and get out.”
“Mom, you cannot be serious,” Kat argued. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“I don’t care. Figure it out. You are adults. You have degrees. You will manage.”
“You’re being worse than Dad’s wife,” Jo spat.
“Good. Maybe she had the right idea.”
Kat broke down, sobbing. “You’re choosing him over us.”
“No. I’m choosing not to let my son be neglected and mistreated in his own home. There’s a difference.”
They stared at me, shocked. Then Jo grabbed her phone and stormed upstairs. Kat followed her, grumbling.
I stood alone in the living room, my heart pounding.
It has been two days. They have not spoken to me since. They move through the house like ghosts, silent and cold, their doors closed. I know they are trying to make me feel guilty and second-guess myself.
And maybe part of me does. They are my daughters. I love them. I want them to be okay.
But every time I doubt myself, I go upstairs and see Arlo. He is better now. But he is quieter. He does not ask about his sisters anymore.
Last night, he crawled into bed beside me. “Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are Kat and Jo leaving because of me?”
My heart broke all over again. “No, sweetheart. They are leaving because of some choices they made. Not because of you. This is not your fault.”
He nodded, but I am not sure he believed me.
I do not know if I made the right choice. I do not know if I am being too harsh. But I do know one thing: I will not let my son grow up feeling unwanted in his own home. I will not let resentment and bitterness poison the one safe space he has left.
So I’m asking you. Am I wrong? Did I overreact? Or did I do what any mother would do when she realized her daughters were willing to let a seven-year-old suffer out of spite?
Tell me. Because right now, I’m drowning in doubt, and I need to know if I just made the biggest mistake of my life.
