I’ve raised ungrateful slackers — and now I don’t know how to live with it
I’ve reached a point where I want to scream at the top of my lungs: “Where did I go wrong? Why is this happening to me?” My children — a son and daughter, now 11 and 15 — leave me not just tired, but utterly drained. 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 our family alone. When Emily was four and Oliver just a year old, their father left for work abroad and… vanished. Like smoke. Rumors eventually reached me: he’s settled in Australia with a new wife, new children, and no room for us. Our divorce was processed remotely. Not once since has he called, written, or asked how his children are growing.
Emily remembers it all — Dad leaving, Mum crying herself to sleep. Her resentment runs bone-deep. Oliver knows his father only from photos. Sometimes he asks, “Mum, will he ever visit?” with such hope in his eyes it breaks my heart.
What cuts deepest is realizing that 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 of it, her clothes stink — but she brushes it off: “It’s my classmates, they smell.” She skips school regularly, shrugs off teachers’ warnings. Any request to help at home sparks tantrums or “Why should I?!”
Oliver, younger but mimicking his sister, now refuses chores, snaps over nothing. Taking out the bins without whinging? Impossible. His grades have plummeted. Teachers say he’s listless, ignores corrections, skips classes.
I work two jobs. Come home exhausted to shouting matches and chaos. I get it — hormones, teenage rebellion, finding themselves — but I’ve limits. Their demands? Phones, crisps, cash, fun. All provided. Where’s the help? The respect?
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. Gave every spare moment. Now they expect Mum’s constant presence, Mum’s solutions, Mum’s endless giving. They claim it as their due. Deny them, and they manipulate. Last week, Emily snapped when I raised my voice: “Yell again and I’ll call social services. Let them see how you live.” I countered: “If they take you to foster care, who’ll buy your crisps or pay your phone bill?” She hissed: “Might be better than living with you.”
My heart stopped. The child I raised with love, pain, sleepless nights… saying that… That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed. What now? Shouting’s useless. Pleading falls on deaf ears. Even hinting at discipline brings threats to report me. One woman against two teens who think themselves grown.
But they’re still children. Mine. I can’t lose them. Can’t let them become selfish adults who can’t love or respect. I won’t live forever. What if I fall ill tomorrow? 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 so tired. I want dialogue back. Understanding. For them to hear me: freedom isn’t just rights — it’s responsibility. That Mum isn’t a servant. I’m human. Exhausted, but still loving.
If any parent’s been here — tell me. How did you cope? Find strength not to break? I need to know I’m not alone. That there’s still hope.
