I Asked My Daughters to Watch Their Little Brother for 2 Hours, An Hour Later He Begged Me to Come Home

I never thought I would find myself caught between my children, forced to choose who to protect and who to let go. Yet one terrible day, a simple decision to trust my daughters with their little brother shattered the fragile balance in our home and made me question whether I had failed as a mother.

I am forty-five years old, mother to three children from two different chapters of my life. Kyra and Mattie, both in their twenties, are the daughters from my first marriage. Jacob, my sweet seven-year-old, is the son I had with my late husband William. My girls had once been my whole world, but divorce changed everything. Their father cast me as the villain, feeding them lies about why our marriage failed. They believed him and chose to live with him, leaving me with scraps of weekends and holidays. I became a visitor in my own daughters’ lives.

Years later, William entered the picture. He was kind and patient, everything my first marriage had lacked. We built a life together, and when Jacob was born, he became the bright light that healed wounds I thought would never close. But Kyra and Mattie never warmed to William. Their father saw to that, whispering poison into their ears until all they felt for me was resentment and mistrust.

Time passed. My girls grew up and went to college, supported financially by their father. But last year, his life shifted. He remarried, and his new wife made it clear that my daughters weren’t welcome. He cut off their rent money and forced them out of their apartment. That was when they called me, their voices small and uncertain, asking for help.

What was I supposed to do? They were my daughters. They had nowhere to go. So, despite my grief—because by then William had fallen ill with cancer and would soon pass away—I opened my home. I told myself it was a chance for healing. But deep down, I feared they were returning not because they wanted family, but because they wanted convenience.

William’s death hollowed me out. Every room in this house is a memory of him. Jacob still asks about his dad every day, and I do my best to keep his world steady. The girls were respectful at the funeral, but I could see the relief in their eyes. They never loved him. They tolerated him because they had to. Now that he was gone, it felt like they could breathe easier. I tried to ignore it, convincing myself grief was twisting my perception, but the truth was clear.

Life with them back under my roof was a step backward. They slipped easily into teenage habits—sleeping late, leaving messes, scrolling endlessly on their phones. I didn’t demand rent or grocery money. I asked for only one thing: kindness toward their little brother. Jacob adored them instantly. He tried so hard to connect—showing them his drawings, chattering about dinosaurs, begging for their attention. They responded with politeness, never cruelty, but also never warmth. And that indifference cut him deeper than open rejection.

One night, as I tucked him in, he asked, “Why don’t Kyra and Mattie like me?” My heart cracked. I lied, telling him they were just having a hard time. The truth was uglier. They resented him because he represented the part of my life their father despised. He was a symbol of everything they felt had been stolen from them.

Two days ago, it all came to a breaking point. Jacob woke up sick—feverish, nauseous, pale as snow. I kept him home from school, tucked him under blankets with cartoons playing softly. He was miserable, but safe. Then my phone rang. A work emergency. My boss begged me to come in, warning that a major client was threatening to walk away. I didn’t want to leave, but losing my job wasn’t an option. I turned to Kyra and Mattie.

“I need you two to watch Jacob for a couple of hours,” I told them. “He’s sick. Just check on him and make sure he’s okay.” They nodded, distracted but agreeable. I kissed Jacob’s forehead, promised I’d be back soon, and left with guilt gnawing at me.

An hour later, my phone buzzed with a text from Jacob: Mom, can you come home please? My chest tightened. I called immediately. No answer. I texted. He replied: I threw up again and I called for Kyra and Mattie but nobody came.

Panic ripped through me. I tried calling the girls, but neither picked up. I bolted out of the office, muttering apologies to my boss, and drove home like my life depended on it.

When I arrived, Jacob’s weak voice called from upstairs. I found him on the floor beside his bed, vomit staining his shirt, tears streaking his cheeks. He clung to me, whispering, “I called them. I called and called… but they didn’t come.” I held him close, my fury building.

After cleaning him up, I stormed downstairs. Kyra was lounging outside with her phone. Mattie was in the kitchen reheating food. “Where the hell were you?” I shouted. “He was crying for you. He texted you. He needed help.”

They offered flimsy excuses—noise in the kitchen, not hearing him. But when I demanded their phones, the truth hit me harder than I imagined. Both had received his texts. Both had read them. Neither responded.

“You knew,” I whispered, trembling with rage. “You knew he needed help. And you did nothing.”

They shrugged, defensive. “We were busy,” Kyra muttered.

“Busy? He’s seven years old. He was sick, scared, alone—and you ignored him. Not because you couldn’t hear him. Because you didn’t care.”

They pushed back, insisting I was overreacting, that I was treating them like parents when they hadn’t signed up for it. My anger boiled over. “I asked you for two hours of kindness. Not parenthood. Not sacrifice. Just basic decency. You failed.”

When they rolled their eyes and muttered half-hearted apologies, I made my decision. “You have one week to find somewhere else to live.”

Shock spread across their faces. “You’re choosing him over us,” Kyra cried.

“No,” I said coldly. “I’m choosing not to let my son be neglected in his own home.”

It’s been two days. They’ve barely spoken to me since, sulking in silence as they pack their things. Part of me aches, because they are my daughters. I love them. But every time I doubt myself, I look at Jacob, who now avoids mentioning them at all. His hurt runs deep, and he doesn’t deserve it.

Last night, he whispered in bed beside me, “Are Kyra and Mattie leaving because of me?”

I kissed his hair and told him no, but I don’t know if he believed me. What I do know is this: I won’t let resentment poison his childhood. I won’t allow bitterness to make him feel unwanted in his own home.

Did I make the right decision? Or did I just sever ties I’ll regret losing forever? I don’t know. All I know is that my son needed me, and when his sisters failed him, I refused to.