No One But Me: A Mother’s Unseen Battle With Her Spirited Twins

“Mom! Tyler bit Lucas again!” Maddie’s voice ricocheted across the playground, slicing through the air like a siren. I spun around, heart pounding, just in time to see both of my six-year-old twins rolling in the mulch, fists and legs a flurry of motion. Other parents stared, their conversations abruptly hushed. I rushed over, my cheeks burning.

“Boys!” I snapped, grabbing each by the arm and yanking them apart. Lucas’s face was streaked with tears and dirt; Tyler’s lower lip trembled, but he glared back at his brother, defiant. “We do NOT hurt each other!”

“He took the dinosaur!” Tyler wailed, clutching the battered plastic toy to his chest. Lucas sniffed, snot bubbling at his nose. “It’s mine!”

I knelt, trying to lower my voice, desperate to project some kind of calm. “We share. Remember what we talked about?”

A woman in yoga pants, clutching her daughter’s hand, shot me a look of mingled pity and annoyance. “Are they always like this?” she asked, not even trying to whisper.

“Pretty much,” Maddie muttered, standing protectively by my side. She’s ten, old enough to feel embarrassed by her brothers, old enough to see the way people look at us.

I forced a smile. “They’re energetic.”

“They’re wild,” the woman countered. Her daughter hid behind her legs, peering at my boys as though they were zoo animals.

My chest tightened. I wanted to vanish, to shrink into the mulch. Instead, I gathered the twins, wiping their faces and speaking through clenched teeth. “Apologize to each other. And to Maddie. And to that little girl.”

They mumbled half-hearted sorries, eyes darting everywhere but at me. The woman shook her head and steered her daughter away.

Back at home, the chaos continued. Tyler upended a box of Legos onto the kitchen floor, Lucas shrieked because he wanted the red piece, and Maddie retreated to her room. I set dinner on the table—mac and cheese, chicken nuggets, carrot sticks—and called everyone over.

“Why can’t they just BEHAVE?” Maddie groaned, flopping into her chair. “Other kids at school don’t act like this.”

“They’re trying,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if it was true. Some days, it felt like I was hanging on by my fingernails, holding back a tidal wave of tantrums and energy and noise.

My husband, Mark, looked up from his phone. “Did you talk to Mrs. Carter about that thing?”

“You mean the twins knocking over the book tower? Yes, I apologized. Again.” My voice was sharper than I intended. “She said maybe they should play in separate rooms.”

Mark sighed, rubbing his temples. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe we should see someone about…

He didn’t finish, but we both knew what he meant. We’d heard the whispers—ADHD, ODD, maybe it’s something else. I’d filled out forms, circled symptoms, sat through meetings at school. I’d watched teachers struggle, friends fade away, invitations dry up.

Later, after the kids were in bed, Maddie padded into the living room. She looked so much older than her ten years, worry etched on her face.

“Mom, why do they act like that? Why does everyone look at us weird?”

I pulled her close, burying my face in her hair. “Because they’re different. And people don’t always understand different.”

She hesitated. “There’s no one else who can handle them but you. If you weren’t here…”

Her voice trailed off, and I felt the weight of her words settle on my shoulders. I’d heard it before—from teachers, from family, even from strangers. I was the only one who could handle them. But what if I couldn’t?

The next day, I braced myself for another round. The twins burst into the grocery store, racing each other down the aisles. Tyler nearly toppled a display of avocados. Lucas snatched a bag of chips from an old woman’s cart.

“Ma’am, your children—” the cashier began.

“I know,” I said, grabbing Lucas’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

She pursed her lips. “You might want to get them tested.”

I swallowed my shame. “Thank you for your advice.”

Driving home, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The boys were giggling, oblivious to the tension, the judgment, the exhaustion etched into my bones. Maddie stared out the window, silent.

That night, after the house finally quieted, Mark found me sitting in the dark, tears slipping down my cheeks.

“You’re doing your best,” he said gently, rubbing my back.

“It’s not enough,” I whispered. “What if I’m failing them? What if they grow up thinking the world hates them?”

He knelt beside me. “They know you love them. That’s what matters.”

But love didn’t stop the stares. It didn’t keep the invitations from vanishing, or stop the teachers from calling, or fix the aching loneliness that crept in at night.

On the worst days, I dreamed of running away—of checking into a hotel, lying in a quiet room with no demands, no chaos. But then I’d see my twins curled up together in sleep, Tyler’s arm flung across Lucas’s chest, and my heart would ache with a fierce, wild love.

One afternoon, after another meltdown at the park, Maddie hugged me tight. “You’re the only one who can do this, Mom. I know it’s hard. But you’re the best mom in the world.”

I pressed my lips to her forehead, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thanks, honey. But sometimes I wish someone else could help. Or just understand.”

She squeezed my hand. “I understand.”

Maybe that was enough. Or maybe it wasn’t. I still wonder, late at night, as I listen to my sons breathe and my daughter’s soft footsteps in the hallway—am I the only one who could ever love them enough to stay? Would you stay, if you were me?