Refusing to Babysit My Sister-in-Law’s Kids on My Day Off Made Me Public Enemy Number One

I often think back to that October Friday when my only free day in two weeks turned into a battlefield. I had been looking forward to a quiet evening after a relentless week at the accounts department of a manufacturing firm in Manchester, but the phone rang and my sisterinlaw, Sophie Clarke, was already shouting into the receiver.

Are you kidding me, Ellen? she hissed, her voice crackling like a kettle on high. Ive got the twins and nowhere to put them, and youre on a day off!

I pulled the handset away, grimaced, and pressed it back to my ear, taking a deep breath. Outside the rain hammered the windows, and the pot of borscht on the stovemore a habit than a cravingbubbled lazily.

Ellen, I can hear you fine, I said, stirring the soup with a ladle. And Ive already told you: no. I have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow and then I want to catch up on sleep. This is my only day off in the fortnight, and I intend to spend it in peace.

Sophie snorted. Shes got a doctors appointment, she says! I know all your doctors. Another massage, maybe a nail salon? And Im not going out for a stroll. Ive got paperwork to file at the Jobcentre; the queues are a mile long. Where am I supposed to go with the twins? Theyll wreck everything!

Exactly, I replied, turning off the stove and slumping onto a stool. If they can tear up a government office, imagine what they’d do to my flat, which we only finished renovating a month ago. I paused, remembering the fresh paint mishap. Paulmy brotheronce scribbled on the new hallway wallpaper with a marker. You laughed it off, Kids will grow out of it. It didnt. We had to replaster an entire strip.

Sophie wailed. Dont bring up the wallpaper again! I apologized! And Sergey promised youd help. Hes my brother, after all!

I closed my eyes. Of course it was Sergeyeverthegoodnatured brother who never managed a firm no to his younger sister. Sophie knew how to pull at his sense of duty like a pianist riffing on a discordant chord.

Talk to Sergey, then, I snapped. But remember, he wont be home tomorrow until the evening; hes heading to the garage for a transmission problem. If you bring the kids, theyll be stuck by the door.

Youre selfish! Sophie spat and hung up.

I set the phone down and rubbed my temples. The kitchen fell into a brittle silence, as if the calm were only a thin veneer over an impending storm.

Half an hour later, a key turned in the lock. Sergey trudged in, dripping rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.

Smells like soup! he exclaimed, planting a kiss on my cheek. Ellen, why the sour face? Something happen at work?

I poured him a bowl, added a dollop of sour cream, and laid out fresh bread. Only after he settled with his spoon did I speak.

Your sister called.

His spoon froze midair. He gave a guilty grin, instantly knowing the subject.

Sophie right. She said she has to dash somewhere tomorrow. Can you look after the twins for a couple of hours? she asked. The boys have grown a bit, not the little terrors they used to be. Put on a cartoon, give them a tablet, and youll have peace.

Sophies couple of hours always turns into a full day, I said, crossing my arms. Last time she said she was popping to the shop for a minute and came back six hours later with cocktail perfume and a new haircut. Meanwhile I was scrubbing the cat out of PlayDoh and rescuing your vinyl collection from becoming frisbees for the twins.

He winced. Okay, she overdid it then, but this time she really needs help. Shes alone with them; its hard for her. Mum called; her blood pressures high, she cant look after them.

My blood pressures fine, I snapped, but my nerves are about to fray. Im the senior accountant; the quarter ends tomorrow, and Im supposed to close the books. I come home exhausted, and all I want is a bath, a good book, and no one to speak to. I didnt sign up to be a freerange nanny. Sophie has an exhusband, child support, and could hire a sitter for an hour. Why should we be the perpetual lifeboat?

He set his spoon down, appetite vanished.

Its family, Ellen. You dont get it. Well help today, theyll help us tomorrow.

I let out a bitter laugh. When was the last time they helped us? When we moved, I asked Sophie to look after my cat for a day and she said she was allergicthough she never had any. When I caught the flu and needed your mother to buy medication because you were on a business trip, she said she was afraid of catching it. Its a oneway street, Sergey.

He fell silent, stare fixed on his plate. Years of being the good son and brother had cemented a stubborn habit.

Fine, he muttered. Ill talk to her. Well say we cant.

I nodded, though I doubted hed follow through. The rest of the evening passed in strained quiet. He typed on his phone, frowned, and sighed, but never raised the subject again.

Saturday morning did not begin with birdsong or sunshine but with a relentless intercom buzz. I had just rolled out of bed, stretching lazily, when the clock read nine oclock.

Who could that be? I whispered, already knowing the answer.

Sergey sprang from the bed, throwing on his gym trousers.

I dont know, probably a mistake, he muttered, avoiding my gaze.

The intercom rang again, shrill and insistent, and his mobile buzzed.

Hello, Sophie? he answered, eyes darting to me. We agreed I wrote to you Sophie, this isnt right!

From the speaker came a torrent of shouting that I could hear even from the bedroom.

I dont know anything! Im already at the block! I have a booking I cant cancel! Take your nephews, dont be a doormat! Ill call Mum if you dont answer!

Sergey looked helpless. Ellen shes already here. What do I do? I cant just leave them outside.

Something snapped inside me, the fragile patience that held our family together for years. I rose, slipped into the bathroom, and locked the door, cranking the tap to drown out the clatter of Sergeys slippers as he shuffled to the intercom.

Five minutes later the apartment descended into chaos. Four tiny feet pounded the hallway, shrill child voices rang out, and something crashed in the entrance, followed by a scream.

Uncle Sergey, do you have any sweets?

Wheres the cat? We want a cat!

Whats that smell? Im not having porridge!

I stood before the mirror, applying face cream with trembling hands, while Sophie barked orders from the hall:

Pick them up at five. Ive left food, but check if Ellens making pancakes. And dont give them too much sweets; Harry has a diet. Im off, love!

The front door slammed shut behind her, and she vanished, leaving the mess behind.

I emerged from the bathroom dressed in jeans, a sweater, light makeup, and a crossbody bag. The hallway was a disaster zone. The fiveyearold twins, Harry and Charlie, had already emptied the shoe rack and were now trying to pull my boots onto their feet. Sergey darted around them, looking bewildered.

Where are you going? he asked, spotting me.

I told you, I replied calmly, stepping over scattered shoes. I have plansdoctor, then a walk, maybe a film.

What about us? his eyes widened. And the garage? I have an appointment at eleven; I cant move it, the queues two weeks long!

Thats your problem, dear, and your sisters. You sort it out yourselves. I said no yesterday.

You cant do that! his voice rose in panic. I cant handle them alone, and I still have to get my car fixed! Stay at least until lunch!

Uncle Sergey, Im thirsty! one of the twins shouted, tugging his trouser leg.

Charlies pinched me! the other wailed.

I looked at the pandemonium, at my husband who seemed about to collapse, and felt a strange lightness. The pity that usually kept me tethered to other peoples messes evaporated.

The garage keys are on the hall table if you decide to go, I said. Theres no food in the fridge; I havent cooked. Order a pizza if you must. Ill be late.

I walked out, slamming the door behind me, cutting off the shrieks.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and a pale autumn sun struggled through the clouds. I breathed in the damp air, feeling like a thief escaping from a prison. My phone buzzed in my bagmy motherinlaw, Mabel Finch, calling.

For a moment I hesitated, then silenced it. No conversations today.

The day unfolded surprisingly well. I visited a manual therapist who eased the ache in my back, then lingered in a cosy café, sipping a cappuccino with a mountain of foam while reading a novel, undisturbed by cries of where are my socks? or whats for dinner?. Later I watched a lighthearted comedy in the cinema, laughing heartily.

I returned home around nine in the evening, the sky darkening. My heart thudded with worryhad they ruined the flat completely?

The apartment was oddly quiet. Shoes still lay in the hallway, an opened pizza box and empty soda bottles sat on the kitchen table, and on the sofa, amidst scattered cushions and toys, Sergey slept with the television muted.

I slipped into the bedroom, the twins nowhere to be seenpresumably Sophie had taken them after all. I changed into something comfortable, brewed tea, and sat at the kitchen table. My phone displayed a flood of missed calls: twenty from Mabel, five from Sophie, ten from Sergey, and a slew of angry messages.

Youre heartless! Mabel wrote. You abandoned your husband in a crisis! Sergeys blood pressure spiked! How could you do this to your own family?

Thanks for the help, sister, Sophie sneered. Because of you I got back an hour early, and my plans were ruined. Youre a nasty piece of work.

I deleted the messages without replying.

Sergey shuffled in, looking like hed been hauling coal. Dark circles rimmed his eyes.

Ive been there, he muttered, annoyance tinged with hurt. Do you even know what happened?

I know, I said, sipping tea. Thats why I left. Did you get to the garage?

The garage? I had to cancel. They drove me mad. They fought, shouted, spilled cola on the sofa I tried to clean the stain but only made it worse.

I looked over my cup.

Exactly. Now imagine if that had been me. Id feel used, too.

Mum called, Sergey said, glancing at the table. She was furious, saying I disrespect her. Sophie claimed she wont set foot in this house again until I apologise.

Me? Apologise? I raised an eyebrow. For what? Not letting her hang herself on my neck? Sergey, be honest. Sophie didnt even go to the Jobcentre. It closes at noon on Saturdays, yet she arrived at nine and planned to leave at five.

How do you know that? he asked, frowning.

Because I didnt waste time scrolling on social media. She posted a story at oneoclock from the town centre, sipping bubbles with two friends, caption Ladies day out. I can show you.

He turned ashen. You you have proof?

I pulled out my phone, handed him a screenshot of Sophie, glittering glass in hand, laughing with her mates. The timestamp read three hours ago.

His face reddened.

So thats it, he sighed. All this talk of a motherinlaws misery, bureaucrats, and my sisterinlaws urgent paperwork

Exactly, I replied, pocketing the phone. I wont apologise. Next time your mother or sister calls with demands, youll explain it yourself. Or shall I forward this photo to Mabel?

No, dontshell have a fit. Blood pressure and all that, he stammered. Ill speak to Sophie myself. Seriously.

He rose, hugged me awkwardly.

Sorry, Ellen. I was a fool. I thought I had to help, but it turned into a mess.

Lets get the drycleaning sortedSophies fault, of course, I said, leaning my head against his chest.

The Sunday that followed was a funeral of silence from relatives. No calls, no messages. Sergey kept his distance from his mother, speaking only when forced. Sophie tried once or twice to call with a whine, but Sergey switched to speakerphone and, looking at me, said firmly, Sophie, weve got plans. Hire a babysitter. The line cracked as if it might break.

I realised then that the whole clan, from the farthest cousin to the nearest aunt, had been chewing on my bones like a relentless tide. I was now the villain, the selfish one, the familys nemesis.

Yet on Saturday morning, when I awoke to the quiet of my flat, poured a cup of tea, and knew no one would jump onto my sofa or scribble on my walls, I felt a strange peace. Being enemy number one wasnt so terribleit was the price of freedom and selfrespect, and I was ready to pay it.

A neighbour, Mrs. Margaret Whitfield, who was aware of the family drama, once said, Ellen, you must be softer, the blood is thicker than water. A womans lot is to endure and smooth the corners.

I smiled, adjusted the bright scarf Id bought with money saved from gifts for the evergrumbling relatives, and replied, My lot, Mrs. Whitfield, is to be happy. Let the ones who love the corners smooth them themselves.

And I walked on, my heels clicking on the pavement, feeling the autumn wind puff my coat like a heros cape after vanquishing the greatest foe of allsomeone elses entitlement.