The Family’s Bandaid

Chapter 1: Returning to the Country

When I came back to my family and moved to the country, it wasn’t some homecoming wrapped in warmth and welcome. It was survival. Every other option felt stripped from me, and the only roof I could find was under my step-grandfather and nan.

Their house smelled like old smoke, stale tea, and the faint must of dust that had settled in the corners decades ago. Every photograph on the walls seemed to belong to someone else’s life, smiles frozen in moments I was never truly part of.

I told myself I could manage it. After all, I was used to adjusting, to keeping my head down and surviving in someone else’s world. I threw myself into work at the pub, not because I loved being sociable and creative, but because it kept me busy enough to not think too much.

Six days a week, sometimes seven. One “day off” on paper, but never in reality. I’d still be running errands for someone, helping at the pub, helping with the to-do list that never seem to end, filling gaps no one else wanted to fill. My body ached more often than not, a constant deep fatigue in my legs from being on my feet all day, and a stiffness in my back from lifting and bending.

I didn’t see it yet, but I wasn’t living my life. I was propping up theirs. I’d become the quiet peacekeeper again. Seemingly to be smoothing over tension, avoiding conflict, holding my breath so the room didn’t explode. I didn’t realise how much of myself I was erasing in the process.

Chapter 2: Becoming the Substitute

The shift into full-blown caretaker mode happened when my stepmother developed tendinitis. The pain in her hand from years in the bistro made even simple tasks a struggle. Without hesitation, I stepped in, because that’s what I’d always done.

Four mornings a week, I’d drag myself out of bed before the sun was properly up, my body already heavy from the day before. By 8 a.m. I was at the pub scrubbing toilets, wiping all tables and cleaning every surface. My hands were raw from detergent, my shoulders tight from constant motion.

By 10 a.m., I’d move to the kitchen for prep, chopping vegetables until my fingers felt numb and prepping chicken, organizing trays, getting ready for the lunch rush. I’d work until 3 or 4 in the afternoon, my feet throbbing in my shoes, but “break time” didn’t mean rest. I’d be sent to the shops for supplies, pulled into the bottle shop to help my dad, or behind the bar when it got busy. My stepmother’s needs, my dad’s needs, the business’s needs — it seemed like me of it landed on my back when no one else was willing to step up. I didn’t have the energy to think about what I needed.

I would be back in the kitchen or behind the bar at 5–5:30, then would be there till 10 p.m. at night if it was the kitchen. The bar could be even later, especially on Friday and Saturday nights, running back and forth from the bar to the bottle shop, never stopping, never backing down from the challenges.

By the time the dinner rush cleared, my feet would ache so badly it felt like the bones were splintering inside. My hands smelled of beer taps and fryer oil, my hair clinging to my skin from the heat of the kitchen. I would tell myself just a little longer, just a few more hours, but the clock never seemed to move. The exhaustion became a second skin I couldn’t take off.

I was only 20, but my body felt older. My mind was always running — a mental checklist of everything I had to do and everything I had to avoid doing wrong. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something purely for myself.

Chapter 3: The Family’s Bandaid

It became clear that I wasn’t just helping, I was her only person. When the rift between my stepmother and my grandparents deepened, my father was stuck in the middle. I saw the way it wore him down: his late nights in the bottle shop, drinking red wine as though each glass might hold an answer.

I thought I could ease it somehow. I’d stay late on Sundays, helping him clean beer lines or close up the bar. The smell of stale hops clung to my clothes while his voice rambled about things I knew he’d forget by morning. I’d scrub and sweep while he drank, just so he wouldn’t be alone in that big, echoing building.

But helping didn’t help. All I did was absorb his heaviness into myself. It sat in my chest, making my own breath feel heavier. I carried his pain, her pain, and my own, all while pretending I was fine.

If I slipped up or did something they didn’t like, I’d be met with cold silence or a public reminder of my mistake. Then, like clockwork, when they needed something again, they’d soften. I’d learned that love here was conditional. Given when you were useful, withdrawn when you weren’t.

And still, I kept showing up. Kept holding my breath for whatever mood the day would bring.

Chapter 4: Repeating the Pattern

Moving to Sydney was supposed to be a fresh start, but I arrived carrying years of exhaustion. I was a first-time mother with no family nearby. My body still hadn’t fully recovered from pregnancy. My arms ached from constantly holding my baby. My back burned from sleepless nights and the endless rhythm of feeding, changing, soothing.

Then my stepbrother and his wife had a baby just two weeks apart from mine. I thought it was a blessing, a chance for my son to grow up with family his age, for me to have someone who understood.

She’d had a C-section with complications, and I felt for her. I visited often, letting the boys play while she rested. At first, I wanted to be there. I wanted to help. But slowly, the visits became less about friendship and more about filling in. Babysitting during appointments turned into unplanned childcare while she went for massages or lunches. I found myself scrubbing her kitchen counters, changing her kids’ nappies, keeping the household running while still raising my own child.

It felt familiar too familiar. The same old script: give without boundaries, be available without question, sacrifice your own rest to keep someone else comfortable. And, like always, when I couldn’t give as much anymore, the closeness disappeared.

I wasn’t family. I was a convenience. And when I stopped being useful, I was set aside.

Reflection:

I spent years being the bandaid that held my family’s cracks together — covering the hurt so no one else had to look at it. But bandaids don’t heal what’s broken; they just hide it. All it did was keep their wounds comfortable while mine kept bleeding.