Two weeks before my best friend, Sarah’s, due date, I booked time off work and covered my flights from Britain to her place in the States. My mission? To help with her two older children – everything from bedtime stories and nutritious meals to homework assistance, school runs, and packing lunches. I’d done this before, a few weeks before her last baby arrived, offering support during the final, challenging stretch of her pregnancy. We had a routine, a rhythm, and I genuinely enjoyed helping her. Upon arriving at her house, bags in hand, and ready to settle back into our well-established pattern, Sarah sat me down with a serious expression. “The baby’s coming early,” she announced, her voice tight with a mix of stress and anticipation. “I have to have a C-section in two days.” I reassured her immediately. No worries, I said, I was still there to help in any way I could. I envisioned myself continuing to manage the kids, whipping up a few meals, and handling some errands – the usual supportive role.
But what she did next completely floored me. It was so shocking, so utterly unexpected, that it made me immediately want to turn around and GO STRAIGHT BACK HOME. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a neatly typed document. At first, I assumed it was a list of instructions or a schedule for the kids. I was so, so wrong.
As I began to read, my jaw dropped further with each line. It wasn’t a simple list; it was a detailed agreement outlining my responsibilities for the next several weeks. It included, as expected, childcare duties, meal preparation, and household chores. But then, the requests became increasingly bizarre, demanding, and frankly, insulting.
She wanted me to handle ALL night-time feedings with the newborn and provide around-the-clock care. I was prepared for that part, but then I read the next line: “Breastfeeding the newborn.” I looked up at her, utterly bewildered. She calmly explained that she wanted to ensure the baby received breast milk but didn’t want to deal with the hassle of pumping or the discomfort of nursing herself.
She expected me, her friend, to breastfeed her baby. A wave of disbelief washed over me. Was she serious? This wasn’t a casual favor; it was an outrageous demand. It felt like she was completely disregarding my boundaries, my body, and my own personal comfort. The document detailed everything else she expected of me, from sanitizing bottles to tracking bowel movements. I felt like I was reading a job description for a live-in nanny, with the added expectation of providing bodily fluids.
I politely but firmly declined. I explained that I was happy to help with the kids, cook meals, and run errands, but that breastfeeding her baby was simply out of the question. She became visibly upset, accusing me of being unsupportive and selfish. That’s when I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t stay in a situation where my boundaries were so completely disregarded.
I repacked my bags, booked the first available flight back to Britain, and left. Our friendship hasn’t been the same since, and honestly, I’m not sure it ever will be. Some lines just shouldn’t be crossed.
