“Get away from me immediately! I can’t stand my sister and her kids anymore!”
“Sveta, get out of my apartment—right now!” I can’t put up with my sister and her brats any longer.
In a small town near Vladimir, where the morning shouts of the market mix with the smell of fresh rolls, my life at 40 has turned into a real circus because of my sister. My name is Olga; I live alone in my two-room apartment, which I barely managed to pay off after my divorce. But my younger sister, Svetlana, her three sons, and her irresponsibility have finally exhausted my patience. Yesterday I shouted at her from the doorway, “Get out of here—fast!” and now I’m wondering if I did the right thing. Honestly, I just couldn’t take it anymore.
A sister who used to be so close
Sveta is five years younger than me. We were always close, despite our different characters. I’m organized and hardworking, always the one carrying everything on my shoulders. She’s careless, forever chasing a “better life.” Her boys are by three different men: Artyom is 12, Kirill is 8, and Misha is 5. She squeezes into a rented little room, scrapes by on odd jobs, and I was constantly helping her with money, groceries, and clothes for the kids. When she asked to stay with me “for a couple of weeks,” I couldn’t refuse. It’s been three months now.
My apartment is my fortress. After the divorce I put everything into it: renovations, furniture, coziness. I work as a hotel administrator, and my life is about order and stability. But once Sveta and her brood arrived, my home turned into a battlefield. Her rascals tear up and down the hallway, yell, break things, draw on the walls. Instead of parenting them, Sveta buries herself in her phone or “goes out on errands,” leaving them to me.
Chaos that destroyed my peace
From day one I knew I’d made a mistake. Artyom, the oldest, is mouthy; Kirill scribbled over the wallpaper; Misha smears porridge all over the floor. They don’t listen to Sveta or to me—as if they’re used to their mother dragging them from one man to another, and my apartment is just another stop along the way. Sveta doesn’t clean, doesn’t cook, doesn’t help with anything. “Olya, you live alone, it’s not hard for you,” she says. And I’m suffocating from her nerve.
My place now feels like a hallway in a train station. Dirty dishes in the sink, toys underfoot, chocolate stains on the sofa. I come home from work and instead of resting, I mop the floor, cook for five, try to calm the kids. Sveta either sleeps or chatters on the phone. When I ask her to tidy up, she rolls her eyes: “Oh, Olga, here you go again. I’m tired.” Tired? From what—living at my expense?
The last straw
Yesterday I came home and didn’t recognize my own apartment. Her kids were tearing around like crazy; one of them almost knocked me over. In the kitchen—mountains of dirty dishes; in the living room—juice spilled on the carpet. Sveta was sprawled on the couch, glued to her phone. I exploded: “Sveta, get out—now!” She looked at me like I was insane. “Seriously? Where am I supposed to go with the kids?” I said that wasn’t my problem, but inside I was shaking. The boys froze, watching us, and I felt sorry for them. But I can’t do this anymore.
I gave her a week to find a place. She burst into tears, screamed that I was cruel, that I was abandoning my own sister. But where was her concern when she turned my home into a pigsty? Where was the gratitude for everything I’d done for them? My friends say, “Olga, you’re right—stop supporting them.” But when Mom heard about the fight, she called begging, “Don’t throw her out; she has kids.” And me? Don’t I deserve peace?
Fear and resolve
I’m afraid I went too far. Sveta and the kids really are in a tough spot, and I feel guilty—especially for my nephews. But I can’t sacrifice myself because of her irresponsibility. My apartment is everything I have, and I won’t let it become a dumping ground for her mess. I offered to help her look for housing, but she refused: “You just want to get rid of us.” Maybe I do. So what?
I don’t know how this week will go. Will Mom forgive me? Will Sveta understand she brought this on herself? Or will I be left “the evil sister” who threw her family out on the street? One thing is certain: I’m tired of being their savior. At 40 I want to live in my own home, in cleanliness, to breathe freely, and for no one to trample my boundaries.
My cry for freedom
This is about my right to my own life. Maybe Sveta loves her children, but her carelessness is wrecking my peace. Maybe her boys aren’t to blame, but I can’t be their mother. At 40 I want my apartment back, my order, my self-respect. This choice will be painful, but I won’t back down. I am Olga, and I choose myself—even if it breaks my sister’s heart.
