Both my daughters are in their twenties. After graduating from university, they didn’t land jobs right away and moved back in with me. We live in what used to be Daniel’s house — my late husband. For clarity, I separated from their father twelve years ago, remarried Daniel, and together we had our son, Noah, who’s seven now.
The girls never accepted Daniel. Most of it came from the things their father fed them about him. Before college, they lived mostly with their dad. But when he remarried last year to a very difficult woman, they stopped visiting entirely.
During their college years, their father paid for their rent, but constant arguments with his wife led him to stop supporting them. With no money, no job, and no apartment, they came back to me and Noah. I agreed, even though I knew they’d never been warm to Noah — polite, yes, but distant.
Five months ago, Daniel passed after battling a long illness, leaving just Noah and me in the house.
Two days ago, I was called away unexpectedly. With Noah sick in bed, I asked my daughters to keep an eye on him for just two hours.
But an hour later, I got a message from Noah: he had gotten sick again, called for his sisters, and they hadn’t come. I tried calling both of them — no answer. Both phones busy.
A sickening dread gripped me. I dropped everything and rushed straight home.
I sped home, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe.
The front door was unlocked. I rushed inside — the TV blared, my daughters sprawled on the couch, laughing with wine glasses in their hands.
“Where’s Noah?!” I shouted.
They barely looked up. “He’s fine,” one of them said lazily.
I stormed down the hallway, my hands shaking. Noah was curled on the bed, flushed with fever, his tiny voice hoarse: “Mom… I called them. They never came.” His cheeks were streaked with tears.
Something in me snapped.
I marched back into the living room. “PACK YOUR THINGS. NOW.”
They blinked, stunned. “What? You can’t be serious—”
“You ignored your little brother while he was sick. You ignored ME. You chose wine over responsibility. Get out of my house. TONIGHT.”
Their jaws dropped. One tried to argue, but I cut her off: “This was Daniel’s house. It’s Noah’s home. You showed me exactly who you are. You don’t get another chance.”
Within an hour, their bags were on the curb. They left, cursing, but I didn’t flinch.
That night, I sat by Noah’s bedside, holding his hand until he fell asleep.
For the first time in years, the house felt quiet — and safe.
And as I stroked his hair, I whispered: “It’s just you and me now, Noah. And I promise, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
