I’ve Raised Ungrateful Slackers — 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 — don’t just exhaust me; they drain me completely. They ignore me, show no respect, make demands, 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 work abroad and… vanished. Poof. Gone. Eventually, rumours trickled back: he’s settled in Australia with a new wife, new children, and no room for us. The divorce was handled through paperwork. No calls. No messages. No interest in his kids’ lives.
Emily remembers it all — her father leaving, my late-night tears. She resents him deeply. Oliver knows him only from photos. Sometimes he asks, “Mum, will he ever visit?” with such hope in his eyes it breaks my heart.
But the sharpest pain is seeing how, after years of pouring myself into them, they’re becoming people I never meant to raise. Emily sneers. I suspect she’s smoking — her room reeks, her clothes stink, yet she snaps, “It’s my classmates’ smell.” She skips school, ignores teachers. Ask her to help at home, and it’s either hysterics or “Why should I?”
Oliver, younger but mimicking his sister, refuses chores, lashes out. Even taking out the bin without whinging is a battle. His grades have plummeted. Teachers say he’s listless, skips lessons.
I work two jobs. Come home shattered, only to face chaos — shouting, mess. I get it: hormones, teenage rebellion. But I’ve hit my limit. All they want are gadgets, crisps, cash, fun. Everything handed over. Where’s the respect? The help?
I’m ashamed to admit I spoiled them. When they were small, I overcompensated for their father’s absence. Bought things I couldn’t afford. Spent every spare moment with them. Now they expect it as their due. If denied, they manipulate. Recently, Emily hissed, “Yell again, and I’ll call social services. Let them see how you live.” I retorted, “Who’ll buy your crisps or pay your phone bill in care?” She shot back, “Might be better than here.”
My heart stopped. The child I raised with love, sleepless nights, sacrifices… saying that. That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed. Shouting’s pointless. Pleading’s ignored. Discipline? Even a hint, and they threaten 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. What if I fall ill? Who’ll cook, clean, care?
Some reading this will judge. “Your fault,” they’ll say. Maybe they’re right. But there’s no manual for perfect motherhood. I winged it, fueled by love.
I’m not giving up. Just exhausted. I want dialogue back. Want them to hear me. To understand freedom means responsibility too. That Mum’s not a servant. I’m human — tired, 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.
