I’m Sorry Your Husband Abuses You… But, To Be Fair, You Kinda Suck.

I’m sorry your husband abuses you… but, to be fair, you kinda suck.

Let me explain.

She is my sister, so of course when she cries abuse, I’m going to open my home to her. She can be very convincing. Or, in actuality, she’s just really good at playing sides and pitting people against whoever she’s mad at in the moment.

Also, I’m separated and fighting for my life to take care of my 16-year-old daughter alone and protect her from her abusive mother. So when my flesh and blood tells me she is leaving her husband—whom she left everything behind for, including her own country—because he is abusing her, I’m going to open my arms wide and welcome her into my home and life again.

Big mistake.

You have to understand that from early childhood, my sister has always been a demon spawn of Satan. She was mean. She would bite hard and scratch the tan off your skin. She could hold a grudge, too. She would purposely not eat all of her candy so she could use it to bribe my brother and me to play with her. But she knew to hold it until the end of our playtime session. And if we didn’t follow her arbitrary rules and whims, then no candy for us—and as an added bonus, she would run crying to our mother and get us in trouble.

It was diabolical.

But we’re in our 40s now, so naturally we’ve matured past petty childhood squabbles, right?

We have not.

With the clarity of hindsight, I can now see that I likely should have taken her complaints about her husband with a grain of salt. And to be fair, if he is a secret abuser, he’s very good at pretending to be a mild-mannered pushover who tolerates her constant onslaught of nastiness.

And he is so polite. I think it’s his British/Australian upbringing. Everything he says sounds enlightened. He isn’t much to look at—kind of like a down-under Drew Carey—but he has always been a genuinely nice guy and an attentive father. We took to him immediately because he just sits there and absorbs all of my sister’s unreasonable demands.

It was a better-him-than-me situation… until it wasn’t.

Having a sensitivity to domestic abuse, I swallowed her tears whole. I believed she was destitute and running for her life. Meanwhile, I was barely piecing my new, separated life together—shoring up my daughter’s mental health while faking my way toward becoming a healthier version of myself.

Then my sister busts in like a tornado of toxicity.

I gave her the room I had renovated, furnished, and set aside for my son to come stay with me. He was still under the spell of his mother, so he never used it. But you claimed it as your own while complaining about the quality of the sheets I bought to make your stay more comfortable.

And you didn’t just complain to me.

You complained to my daughter—whose life I literally saved. Now she thinks the man whose whole life is built around keeping her safe and comfortable doesn’t care enough about others because he bought guest sheets from Target on Black Friday.

They felt soft in the store.

Then you decided to tell my college ex-girlfriend—whom you chose over me when she dumped me—which would have been fine, because who cares what she thinks? I’ve barely thought about her since she ripped my heart out two decades ago when she chose to marry her high school boyfriend instead of me.

But you didn’t stop there.

Instead, you also told her nice things about me, knowing full well she was already on her second husband and that they were “not getting along.”

Things like I’m funny again and I got into shape. That I grew a beard this year, which elevated my appearance exponentially. It turns out all I had to do was cover half my face.

Then you showed her videos of me playing with my kids and riding the plastic Shetland pony on the toddler merry-go-round at the arcade. You knew full well she could never resist my absurdity.

So now, on top of loneliness and mourning my old life, I have her sliding into my DMs, prodding at my ego during intermittent bouts of depression.

Of course I’m going to start a secret affair with her. She’s the only one being nice to me, and I haven’t had sex in over a year.

But you didn’t anticipate that she would fall madly in love with me again—and tell me all the things you’ve been saying about me.

You have the audacity to say that I’m toxic? That I give off bad vibes?

You are living for free in my house, you homeless bitch.

Sorry—I meant unhoused.

Although “unhinged” feels more accurate.

Then you invite your friend from up north to come stay in my home. She is also married, by the way, and she has come to visit you, leaving behind her husband. She speaks well of him, so I did not anticipate that on the day of the backyard barbecue I’m throwing—to host you, your guest, my ex-girlfriend, and her kids from two completely different men—that I would wake up to the sound of you and your houseguest screaming at each other.

Because you’re accusing her of trying to have sex with me.

I have no interest in your friend. Anything that may have even resembled flirting can be chalked up to alcohol and me being a good host. I get a little silly when I am tipsy and playing UNO. Besides, by now, my secret conversations with my ex were picking up right where we left off twenty years ago.

Now you are driving away in the minivan our grandmother lent you while your houseguest chases you down the street barefoot, trying to figure out how to tell her husband you abandoned her at the house of your recently single brother.

This will definitely be the last time he lets her go anywhere without him.

I never understood why your friends put up with you, but I can clearly see now it’s because they are afraid of you.

I’m not.

You are, and always will be, my little sister. But there are limits to what I will tolerate. I’m still your big brother, and I can remember when you wore day-of-the-week underwear—and it was always the wrong day.

That knowledge alone makes me immune to your terror.

But they don’t know you like I do. That’s especially true of my precious daughter, whom you have taught—by your words and example—that it’s acceptable to treat her father with attitude and disrespect.

We just moved past her mother’s bad example and disdain for me and built a place of healing, mutual love, and respect.

You dropped a grenade on that immediately.

You do realize that’s the reason I left her mother and took my daughter with me?

And you want to reintroduce that toxicity back into my house?

You have got to go.

I’m sorry your husband allegedly abuses you. I can’t speak to that. And don’t get me wrong—I never condone violence, disrespect, or any form of domestic abuse: physical, emotional, or otherwise.

But it’s starting to feel like you were the abuser all along.

Maybe it’s just your defense mechanism, but I can’t have a rabid dog in my house disrupting our peace.

So I’m sorry you have no place else to go.

It’s because you’ve burned every bridge you’ve walked across.

And I clearly don’t have the emotional maturity or nervous system regulation required to manage your chaos. I need to focus on that—for my daughter’s sake.

My decision to let you stay here has only made everything worse. Goodbye. Maybe forever.