When my sister told us she was pregnant, she was glowing. Everyone smiled. There were congratulations. Hugs.
I smiled too.
But I couldn’t stop shaking.
Because this isn’t good news.
This is a slow-burning tragedy. One that hasn’t even started yet.
And I’ve felt sick every single day since she told us.
Not because I’m jealous. Not because I hate kids. But because my sister and her husband should never have become parents.
Let me explain. My sister has Borderline Personality Disorder. Diagnosed. Not speculated, not self-diagnosed. It’s real. And it’s severe. Her life is chaos—emotional storms, black-and-white thinking, screaming phone calls, complete meltdowns over imagined slights. I’ve seen her go from sobbing to I hate you, don’t ever talk to me again in 90 seconds. Then back again.
And her husband? He’s been diagnosed with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
They were both told—by professionals—they need treatment. Medication. Therapy. Accountability. But neither of them believes it. They think the world is the problem. Not them.
So now, these two people, these ticking time bombs, are having a baby.
My stomach is in knots just writing this. I live provinces away. And still—still—they manage to drain my life. One minute it’s an angry voicemail, the next it’s a guilt trip on Facebook, or a wild rumor they started about me because I didn’t answer a text fast enough.
I have no idea how they’ll raise a child. I can already imagine it:
One moment the baby will be their entire world, the next it’ll be the scapegoat for every unprocessed trauma they refuse to deal with. I’ve seen how they treat each other. I’ve seen how they talk to people. I’ve seen my sister scream that someone is “abusing her” because they said no to something.
And now there will be a child in the middle of that.
A tiny, innocent baby, born into emotional chaos. Into manipulation. Into a war zone with no bombs—just words sharp enough to leave scars you carry your whole life.
I’m terrified. We all are. My mother broke down crying in the kitchen the night she found out. My dad walked outside and didn’t come back for hours. Even my aunt—who’s always defended my sister—said, “This is going to be bad.”
And I know how it sounds. I know. You’re just being dramatic. People change when they become parents.
But my sister won’t change. Her husband can’t even admit he’s done a single thing wrong in their entire relationship. I wish this was just about being unprepared or immature.
This is about a baby being born into a storm—and the people who were supposed to protect it being the very ones who’ll break it.
And yet, here’s the part I’ve never told anyone:
I got a message last week. From my sister’s best friend. We haven’t spoken in years.
She said:
“I thought you should know. Your sister told me she stopped taking her medication. Cold turkey. Said she wanted the baby to be ‘natural.’ She hasn’t told anyone else. But she’s not okay. She’s not sleeping. She’s not eating. She’s screaming at him all the time. I’m scared.”
I stared at that message for a long time. Then I read it again. And again.
And that’s when it hit me.
I’m not afraid for the future. I’m afraid for right now.
Because no one’s talking about the worst-case scenario. The one none of us have said out loud, but it’s there. In the silence. In the tears. In the sick, twisting feeling in my stomach.
What if that baby never makes it home?
What if it does—but ends up growing up the way I did?
Scared. Walking on eggshells. Gaslit. Broken. But never allowed to say it. Never believed.
What if I’m watching history repeat—and there’s nothing I can do to stop it?
God help that baby. Because no one else will.
