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 Jacob 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 Jacob settled in clean pajamas and back into bed with a bucket beside him.
Then I went downstairs.
I found Kyra in the backyard garden, lounging on one of the patio chairs with her phone glued to her hand. Mattie was in the kitchen, casually putting something in the microwave.
“Where the hell were you?” I yelled, my voice shaking.
Kyra looked up, startled. “Mom?
You were supposed to be at the…”
“Jacob was calling for you. He threw up. He was crying.
He texted me because neither of you bothered to check.”
Mattie walked in from the kitchen. “We were here the whole time.”
“Then why did not you answer him?”
“I did not hear him,” Kyra said defensively. “I was down here.”
“And I was using the blender,” Mattie 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?” Kyra 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,” Kyra said.
“Show me your phones.”
“Mom, come on,” Mattie said, rolling her eyes.
“Show me your damn phones,” I demanded.
Reluctantly, they handed them over.
I opened Kyra’s messages first. There it was. A text from Jacob, sent 20 minutes before I left my office: “Kyra I threw up.
Can you please help me?”
The message was read. But there was no response.
I opened Mattie’s phone. Same thing: “Mattie, 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,” Kyra 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,” Mattie 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,” Kyra retorted, her voice breaking.
“What’s not fair is that Jacob lost his father five months ago and instead of having sisters who support him, he has you two. You’re pathetic. Both of you.”
Mattie’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,” Kyra defended.
“Sorry does not cut it.
You have one week to find somewhere else to live.”
They both froze.
“What?” Mattie whispered.
“You heard me. One week. Pack your things and get out.”
“Mom, you cannot be serious,” Kyra 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,” Mattie spat.
“Good. Maybe she had the right idea.”
Kyra 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 Mattie grabbed her phone and stormed upstairs. Kyra 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 Jacob. 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 Kyra and Mattie 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.
