“Mom Blames Me for Not Helping with Sick Brother: I Left Home After High School”

After graduating high school, I, Lily, packed my bags and left the small, stifling town where I grew up. It wasn’t just the town itself that was suffocating but also the heavy, painful atmosphere at home. My younger brother, Louis, had been diagnosed with a chronic illness two years prior, and life had never been the same since.

Mom, Alexa, had transformed from the warm, loving parent I remembered into someone I barely recognized. Consumed by Louis’s care, she became bitter and resentful, especially towards me. She believed I wasn’t doing enough to help, despite my attempts to balance school, a part-time job, and home responsibilities.

The night before I left, Mom’s fury reached a new peak. “You’re just going to leave us like this? Leave your sick brother when he needs you the most?” she had screamed, her face red and contorted with anger.

I tried to explain that I had received a scholarship, that going to college was a chance for me to build a future, but she wouldn’t hear it. “You’re abandoning your family,” she accused, her voice thick with contempt.

The messages started the day I left. At first, they were pleas for me to come back, but they quickly turned venomous. “You selfish girl, I hope you feel the pain you’ve left us with,” one read. Another said, “If something happens to Louis, it’s on you.” I began blocking each new number she used, but somehow, she always found another way to reach me.

College was supposed to be my fresh start, but Mom’s words haunted me. I made friends, studied hard, and tried to build a new life, but the guilt and fear clawed at me. I worried constantly about Louis, about how he was doing, whether he was getting worse. But every attempt I made to reach out ended in more vitriol from Mom.

One evening, as I sat studying in my dorm room, my phone buzzed with a number I didn’t recognize. Hesitant, I answered, only to hear Mom’s icy voice. “Louis is in the hospital,” she said, her tone emotionless. “It’s serious. But don’t bother coming. You stopped being his sister the day you walked out.”

The call ended before I could respond. I sat there, phone in hand, feeling a mix of panic and helplessness. I booked a ticket home immediately, despite Mom’s words.

When I arrived at the hospital, Louis was stable but hadn’t woken up yet. I sat by his bed, holding his hand, waiting for any sign of improvement. Mom walked in hours later. Her face was drawn, tired. I stood, ready to embrace her, to apologize, to try to mend things.

But she just looked at me, her eyes hollow. “You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered before turning and walking out.

Louis never woke up. He passed away a week later. I attended the funeral, an outsider in my own family. Mom’s words in the hospital echoed in my mind, a constant, painful reminder of the rift between us.

I returned to college, carrying the weight of unresolved grief and broken family ties. Mom never contacted me again. The last message I had from her was a goodbye in its own harsh way. And as I tried to move forward, I couldn’t help but wonder if things could have been different, if I had stayed, if I had been a better sister, a better daughter.

But some questions, it seems, are destined to remain unanswered.