Off The Record
My Sister Kept Dropping Her Kids At My House Before Dawn Without Warning—So I Taught Her A Lesson She’ll Never Forget
I don’t put up with those who treat generosity like a natural trait or who see it as weakness. I realised it was time to give my sister a lasting lesson in boundaries when she began to treat me like her own babysitter.
Has there ever been someone in your life who simply thought they had all of your time? Someone who considered your situation and concluded that since you didn’t meet their definition of “busy,” you were always available? In a nutshell, it is my sister Daphna.
My name is Amy. Yes, I am single and I work from home. My sister Daphna, who is thirty-two, has two boys: young Tyler, who recently turned three, and Marcus, who is six. She moved into a house two blocks from mine after getting divorced approximately a year ago. I initially thought it would be wonderful to have her close by. The boys could come over, we could go out for coffee, you know, typical sister stuff.
That chat from August ought to have been my first red flag.
When Daphna mentioned her daycare problem, we were sitting on my front porch, sweltering while sipping iced tea.
While poking at the label on her glass, she remarked, “I’m so stressed about nursery,” “They close randomly for training days, and I can’t keep missing work. My boss is already on my case.”
I felt sorry for her. It must be difficult to be a single mother.
I said, “I could help out occasionally,” “When you’re really in a bind.”
Her expression brightened. “Really? Amy, that would be amazing. Just now and then when I’m stuck.”
I said, “Occasionally,” again, stressing the word. “Like emergency situations.”
“Of course! Just emergencies.”
She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You’re the best sister ever. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I ought to have received that in writing.
It occurred for the first time on a Tuesday in late August. At 5:40 a.m., my doorbell rang, even though my alarm wasn’t set to go off for another hour. With my hair sticking up in all directions, I got out of bed and answered the door.
Tyler and Marcus were standing there holding plush animals in their dinosaur pyjamas. Marcus was wearing his green T. Tyler’s Triceratops were blue. They appeared bewildered and half sleepy.
“Auntie Amy!” Marcus exclaimed in a tiny, unsure voice.
Daphna’s words echoed brightly from the driveway. “Got an early morning yoga class! You’re a lifesaver!”
I was about to reply when her white SUV started to back out, its taillights fading as it turned the corner.
Don’t text. Not a warning. Not at all “Is this okay?”
Before dawn, there were only two children at my door.
I glanced down at the lads. Tyler was using his tiny fists to massage his eyes. With a mumble, “I’m hungry,”
I sighed and moved aside. “Come on in,” I said. “Let’s find you some breakfast.”
As the boys took their seats on my couch, I texted Daphna, saying, “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”
“Sorry! Last-minute thing. You’re amazing! Heart emoji, heart emoji,” was her response two hours later.
My doorbell rang at 5:38 a.m. the following morning.
With the same toy dinosaurs in their hands, my nephews met me at the door in their pyjamas. My sister’s vehicle was also moving away.
Daphna yelled, “This is just for today,” “Promise!”
The following day, she did this again. And the day after that.
By the second week, I’d stopped being startled. I just started setting my alarm earlier, keeping extra milk in the fridge, and moving my morning meetings to 10 instead of nine.
My routine became their routine. Before my first video call, I would make peanut butter toast, look through the bag Daphna threw on my porch for matching socks, and try to get the kids settled with cartoons.
Every morning, my coffee would get cold. My job suffered. I was joining client meetings late, apologizing for background noise, attempting to concentrate while two youngsters battled about who got the blue cup.
The fact is, I love my nephews. I really do. Tyler’s sticky-handed hugs and Marcus’s never-ending dinosaur facts. However, being their unscheduled, unpaid babysitter every day and loving them are two entirely different things.
I was fatigued. My eyes have persistent dark rings. Stress-eating caused me to put on weight because I no longer had time for healthy meals. My apartment looked like a tornado had hit it. Toys littered everywhere, juice stains on my couch, Goldfish crackers mashed into my carpet. God, it was such a mess.
My friends stopped inviting me out since I was often canceling. “Sorry, got the boys again.” It became my default response to everything. My social life died. I didn’t have a dating life. When you’re cleaning noses and resolving arguments over Lego blocks, how do you swipe through apps?
What’s the worst? Daphna pretended to be helping me out. As if I should be thankful for the luxury of spending time with her children.
I would sit in the same pyjamas I had put on at five in the morning, with my hair unwashed and my to-do list unfinished, while she would pick them up in the evening after going to the gym or having a happy hour with her new lover.
She would casually ask, “How were they?” while gathering their belongings without even glancing at me.
I would say, “Fine,” as I couldn’t think of anything else to say. That during a client call, I was unable to get Tyler to the loo in time, resulting in another accident? Marcus spilt a whole box of cereal on the floor, then walked over it, leaving three rooms covered with crumbs? And I hadn’t had time to prepare anything else for lunch, so I’d just eaten string cheese and crackers?
I made an effort to establish limits. I did, in fact.
When Daphna arrived to take them up one evening, I said, “Daphna, can you please text me first?”
She responded, “Sure, sure,” as she browsed through her phone. “Hey, did I tell you about this new guy I’m seeing? His name’s Matt and he’s…”
I cut in, “I’m serious,” “I need advance notice.”
Startled, she looked up. “Amy, it’s not like you have anywhere to be. You work from home.”
It was there. People assumed that working from home meant I would spend my days waiting for something to do while lounging in my pyjamas and watching Netflix.
“I have meetings and deadlines… and a job.”
She dismissedively waved her hand. “I know, I know. But it’s flexible, right? That’s the whole point of working from home.”
On Tuesday morning of the next week, I texted her, saying, “I have a big client presentation at nine today, so I can’t watch the boys.”
5:35 a.m. My doorbell rang the following morning.
I stayed in bed the entire time. The message I sent her was, “Daphna, I told you I can’t today.”
“Quick favour. Promise it’s the last time. PLEASE. I’ll make it up to you,” was the response that buzzed on my phone.
It was never the final instance.
Things got out of hand last week. While I was in the lavatory, Tyler spilt the entire carton of strawberry yoghurt onto the keyboard of my laptop. The keys ceased to function. Goop from strawberries soaked in between the letters. In order to complete an assignment that was due that afternoon, I had to use my phone.
Marcus covered my living room wall with vibrant hearts the same day after discovering dry-erase markers in my desk drawer. The portion was covered with scribbles in shades of orange, green, red, and blue.
I looked at the damage and questioned, “What happened here?”
Marcus had a proud expression. “I made art! Auntie said she likes colour.”
“When did I say that?”
“You wear colourful shirts.”
I couldn’t even use logic that was six years old to argue.
Tyler’s tantrum over the “wrong” cup caused me to miss an important call with a prospective client the following morning. The blue one was what he desired. He had received the green one from me. This must have been a serious enough offence to warrant twenty minutes of yelling.
The client had already left with someone else when I eventually gave them a call back.
The value of that account would have been $2,000.
When Daphna came to pick up the boys that night, I confronted her.
I said, “We need to talk,” as I blocked the door.
She looked at her watch. “Can it wait? Matt’s taking me to dinner, and I need to…”
My voice sounded harsher than I had intended when I said, “No, it can’t wait.” “This has to stop. I’ve lost work. My laptop’s ruined. My walls are destroyed. I can’t keep doing this.”
Daphna’s face changed from hurried to irritated. “Seriously? They’re your nephews, Amy.”
“I know they’re my nephews. That’s not the point.”
She stated, “Family helps family,” as if she were describing a basic concept to a little child. “You’re single. Your time’s flexible.”
that term. adaptable. As if my life were made of rubber, which could be bent and stretched to meet her needs.
I protested, “My time isn’t free,” “I work. I have clients and deadlines.”
She chuckled. “Come on. You’re on your computer in pyjamas. It’s not like you’re in an office.”
“That doesn’t mean…”
“Look, I appreciate your help. I do. But you’re making this into a bigger deal than it is. It’s a few hours in the morning.”
“Every morning, Daphna. Every single morning for three months. I admit that I’d volunteered to help. But that doesn’t mean…”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what? Fine. I’ll figure something else out.”
I felt a wave of relief. She was listening at last.
However, my doorbell rang at 5:20 a.m. on Friday.
I unlocked the door. The same boys. The same bed linens. Daphna, however, did not even exit the vehicle this time.
Her window was rolled down. “Romantic getaway weekend with Matt! Leaving straight from work. The boys can stay until tonight. You’re the best!”
“Daphna, wait…”
However, she had already left, her taillights disappearing into the blackness before dawn.
Marcus and Tyler were staring up at me drowsily as I stood in my doorway. My unfinished coffee was on the counter behind me. My laptop was waiting on my desk with the new replacement keyboard I had purchased. Three meetings were listed on my calendar for the day.
I had lost my anger. I had no energy left for anger.
I had just finished.
“Come on, boys,” I murmured. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
However, I did something different while they consumed their cookies and cereal.
On my laptop, I launched Excel and began typing.
I kept track of everything. Over the course of three months, this “occasional favour” had cost me every cash, every chance squandered, and every expense.
$35.12 for breakfast and snack groceries
When kids became agitated and I needed them to leave the home so I could work, I paid $27.90 for an Uber ride to the park.
The cost of a new keyboard to replace the one ruined by yoghurt is $89.99.
$41.30 for wall paint to conceal the “art”
Missed meetings and postponed assignments resulted in a conservative estimate of $160 in lost freelancing income.
$354.31 in total.
I made an invoice. Expert. tidy. listed.
“Childcare and Related Expenses: August through November”
After printing it, I took out a pink marker and scribbled, “Family discount available upon request,” at the bottom.
I created a calendar for the following month after that. I bolded the following for each morning session between five and eight: “BOOKED. $50 per morning. Prepayment required.”
I used magnets to secure both documents to my refrigerator.
I waited after that.
I heard the back door open around nine o’clock at night. A few months prior, I had handed Daphna an emergency key.
“Amy! We’re back!” Daphna said in a cheerful, animated voice. “You should see the resort Matt took me to. The spa was incredible, and we had dinner overlooking…”
While speaking, she paused.
With my hands clasped around a cup of tea, I sat at the kitchen table and observed her expression as she examined the contents of the refrigerator.
Her gaze shifted from the calendar to the invoice and back again. In roughly three seconds, her tanned, bright face turned ghostly white.
With trembling hands, she took the invoice from the refrigerator. “What the hell is this?”
Calmly, “An invoice,” I said. “For services rendered.”
“Services?” she asked, raising her voice. “You’re charging me? For watching your own nephews?”
“For three months of unpaid labour, yes.”
She flashed the document at me and said, “This is crazy!” “You’re family!”
“Exactly! I’m family. Not free labour. Not your personal creche service. Not someone whose time doesn’t matter because she works from home and doesn’t have kids of her own.”
Now, her face heated, she was screaming, “But family helps family!”
“You keep saying that like it’s a free pass to take advantage of me. Family also respects family. Family asks permission. And they don’t assume.”
She crumpled the invoice and tore it down. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“No. found my boundaries.”
She turned to look at the calendar. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“My future side business. Morning childcare. Turns out I’m actually pretty good with kids. But my clients would schedule in advance and pay appropriately.”
Her mouth fell open. “You’re turning this into a business? You’re making money off your family?”
“No, Daphna. You already made it a transaction when you started treating me like an employee you didn’t have to pay. I’m just making the terms clear.”
“This is heartless!” she exclaimed, jerkily and angrily grabbing her pocketbook. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me!”
“Do what? Ask to be compensated for my time? Request basic respect?”
She walked briskly to the door. “You’ll regret this!”
I held out my mug. “Add it to the invoice.”
My windows rattled as the door slammed so forcefully.
The home was silent. Silence, sweet, serene.
“WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!” was screamed from outside.
I made my way to the window.
Daphna’s white SUV was parked in my driveway under the porch light. It was no longer precisely white, though. The windows, doors, and hood were all covered in crayon striations of red, blue, green, and orange. Thanks to Tyler and Marcus, this is abstract art.
The youngsters were laughing as they stood next to the automobile.
Marcus said, “Auntie said she likes colour!” with pride.
I grinned as I slowly sipped my tea.
There is humour in the universe. Washable crayons on a white SUV that would take hours to clean are sometimes the manifestation of karma. Additionally, there are instances when teaching someone about boundaries necessitates letting the results speak for themselves.
Taking out a notepad, I added, “Art supplies and SUV cleaning services: $50.”
I then placed it outside my door so Daphna wouldn’t be able to see it.
Family supports family. Yes! However, family also learns to respect limits. And if a car covered in crayons and an itemised invoice are required to convey that message, then so be it.
I’m not sorry. I’m not going to back down. Furthermore, I will never again be a babysitter. My boundaries can no longer be negotiated. And truthfully? It’s quite pleasant.
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