I’ve Raised Ungrateful Brats — And Now I Don’t Know How to Cope
It feels like I’ve reached the breaking point where I want to scream, “Where did I go wrong? Why is this happening to me?” My children — a son and daughter, now 11 and 15 — exhaust me beyond measure. They ignore me, show no respect, demand endlessly, and manipulate. As a single mother holding everything together, I’m crumbling. Emotionally. Physically.
For nearly a decade, I’ve carried this family alone. When Emily was four and Oliver just a toddler, their father left for Australia “to find work” and vanished. Poof. Gone. Rumors eventually reached me: he’s settled there with a new wife, new children, no room for us. The divorce was paperwork from afar. Not a call, not a letter, no interest in his kids’ lives.
Emily remembers it all — Dad leaving, Mum crying at night. Her bitterness runs deep. Oliver knows his father only through photos. Sometimes he asks, “Mum, will he ever visit?” with such hope in his eyes it breaks my heart.
But the real pain? After years of pouring myself into them, I see them becoming people I never meant to raise. Emily sneers. I suspect she’s smoking — her room reeks, her clothes stink, but she blames classmates. She skips school, ignores teachers. Ask her to help at home, and it’s meltdowns or “Why should I?”
Oliver, younger but copying his sister, refuses chores, snaps angrily. Can’t even take the bins out without whinging. His grades plummet. Teachers say he’s listless, skips homework, drifts through lessons.
I work two jobs. Come home shattered to chaos — shouting, mess, drama. I get it: hormones, teenage rebellion. But I’ve limits. All they want are gadgets, crisps, cash, fun. Demands met, always. Where’s the help? The respect?
I’ll admit it: I spoiled them. When they were small, I overcompensated for their father’s absence. Bought things I couldn’t afford. Gave every spare moment. Now they expect it. Entitled. If refused, they manipulate. Last week, Emily hissed, “Yell again and I’ll call social services. Let them see how you live.” I snapped, “Who’ll buy your crisps or pay your phone in care?” She shot back, “Might be better than this.”
My heart shattered. The child I raised with love, sleepless nights, sacrifices… That evening, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed. What now? Shouting’s useless. Pleading falls on deaf ears. Discipline? Even a hint brings threats of social services. One woman against two teens who think they’re grown.
But they’re still children. Mine. I don’t want to lose them. Don’t want them to become selfish adults who can’t love or respect. I won’t live forever. If I fall ill? Who’ll cook, clean, care?
You reading this might judge. “Your fault,” you’ll say. Maybe you’re right. But there’s no manual for perfect motherhood. I winged it, fueled by love.
I’m not giving up. Just bone-tired. I want dialogue, understanding. For them to hear me: freedom isn’t just rights — it’s responsibility. Mum’s not a servant. I’m human. Exhausted, but still loving.
If any parent’s been here — tell me. How did you cope? Find strength? I need to know I’m not alone. That there’s still hope.
