But I was running on empty. I started falling behind in school, missing shifts at work, and struggling to stay awake during the day. I cared for Rosie like she was my own—and that love, ironically, was what made it so hard.
Then came the breaking point.
One Thursday night, Abby came home well past 11 p.m., still in party clothes. I was on the couch with a crying Rosie, too drained to even speak.
“You said you’d be home hours ago,” I said.
“I lost track of time.”
That was all. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just a shrug from someone who treated motherhood like something optional.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I told her. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“I never asked you to do it alone!”
“No—you just assumed I would. Like I didn’t have my own life.”
She left the room.
Something changed in me that night. Not out of resentment, but clarity.
The next morning, when Abby said she had plans with Preston again, I said I’d watch Rosie. Calmly. Kindly. But I had already made a different plan.
I called Sandra and Mark—trusted retired social workers I had known for years. They listened, asked questions, and offered guidance.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Sandra asked.
“I have to,” I said.
When Abby returned later that day, the house was quiet. Rosie was peacefully asleep in Sandra’s arms at the kitchen table.
“Who are you?” Abby asked.
“I’m Sandra,” she said gently. “Your sister reached out. She’s been under immense pressure, and there are some things we need to talk about.”
“Where’s Lena?”
“Resting. Something she hasn’t done in a long time.”
Abby tried to brush it off. “This is dramatic. I never forced her.”
“You relied on her more than was fair,” Sandra replied. “And it’s time to make things right.”
Abby was quiet. Then, slowly, she nodded. “I didn’t realize.”
“You do now,” Sandra said. “And it’s not too late.”
When I came home that evening, expecting tension, I found Abby sitting with Rosie, rocking her gently. Her eyes were puffy, but she looked grounded for the first time in a long while.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see what I was putting on you.”
I didn’t rush to comfort her. I just nodded.
“You deserve your own life. I want to be better—for Rosie, and for you.”
That night, I slept deeply. It was the first time in months I didn’t wake up to check on Rosie.
Two weeks have passed.
Abby is changing. She’s present. She listens. She takes responsibility. Preston is no longer in the picture—and when he left, she didn’t cry. She simply said, “He wasn’t ready. And that’s okay.”
Last weekend, we had a small backyard picnic. Just the four of us—Mom, Abby, Rosie, and me. There were nachos, cupcakes, and soft giggles on the grass.
“It scared me,” Abby whispered. “I almost lost everything.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “You just stopped seeing what you had.”
Now she does.
I’m still Rosie’s aunt—not her mother. And that’s enough.
Because now, I’ve started choosing myself again. And I won’t stop.