I trusted my daughters to watch their sick little brother for just two hours while I dealt with a work emergency. They were adults, living under my roof—I thought they could handle it. But then I got a text from my seven-year-old son, Jacob: “Mom, can you come home please?”

I rushed back to find him curled up by his bed, sick and crying. He’d thrown up again and called for them, but they ignored him. I checked their phones—his texts had been read. No replies.

Kyra and Mattie are in their twenties, my daughters from a bitter first marriage. Their father won their loyalty; I lost my place in their lives. They moved in after William, my second husband and Jacob’s father, died of cancer. Jacob, still grieving, had hoped for warmth from them. Instead, they treated him like he didn’t exist.

I never asked them for rent. Just kindness. Instead, they slept in, made messes, and ignored us. When I confronted them, they shrugged it off. “You’re being dramatic,” Kyra said.

That night, I gave them one week to move out.

Now the house is tense, quiet. Jacob asks if they’re leaving because of him. I tell him the truth: “Because of their choices.”

I question myself every day. But I know this—my son deserves a home where he feels safe, not invisible. I won’t sacrifice his well-being to keep the peace.

So I ask you—was I wrong to choose my youngest child over the daughters I no longer recognize?