At work, I’ve always been dependable—early shifts, late nights, extra coverage. But my coworker and supposed friend started treating me like her personal fallback. She’s a mom, and while I respect that, she assumed that because I’m child-free, I should always cover her shifts. It began with polite requests, then turned into expectations. I finally said no, and she didn’t take it well. Suddenly, I was “selfish” and “unsupportive.” But I wasn’t being cruel—I was setting boundaries. Just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean my time is less valuable. I deserve respect, not guilt.
She’d guilt-trip me constantly: “You don’t have kids, so it’s easier for you,” or “You have more flexibility.” But being child-free doesn’t mean I’m free of responsibilities. I have a life, commitments, and my own version of stress. I tried to explain that I needed balance too, but she dismissed it. To her, my time was expendable. That hurt more than I expected. I wasn’t asking for special treatment—I was asking for fairness. And when I didn’t bend, she made me the villain.
The final straw came when she asked me to cover a weekend shift so she could take her kids to a birthday party. I had plans of my own, but she didn’t ask—she assumed. I said no, and she stormed off. Later, she told others I was “making things difficult” and “not being a team player.” I was stunned. I’d covered for her more times than I could count. But the one time I prioritized myself, I became the target of workplace gossip.
I spoke to my manager—not to complain, but to clarify. I wanted it known that I wasn’t available on demand. My manager was understanding, but the tension with my friend lingered. She stopped talking to me, stopped inviting me to lunch, and made passive-aggressive comments in meetings. I felt isolated, not because I’d done something wrong, but because I’d stopped being convenient. It was a painful realization: some friendships are built on imbalance.
I started leaning into my own life more—taking classes, traveling, spending time with people who respected my time. I stopped apologizing for not having kids. I stopped explaining why my time mattered. I found peace in the boundaries I’d set. And slowly, I rebuilt my confidence. I wasn’t less than her—I was just different. And that difference deserved respect, not exploitation.
Eventually, she reached out, saying she missed our friendship. I told her I missed it too—but only the parts that felt mutual. I explained how her assumptions had hurt me, how her expectations had made me feel like a servant, not a colleague. She listened, and to my surprise, she apologized. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. We’re rebuilding now, slowly, with clearer boundaries and deeper understanding.
I’ve learned that being child-free doesn’t mean being endlessly available. It doesn’t mean I owe anyone my time just because they have kids. My life is full, my time is precious, and my boundaries are valid. Saying no isn’t selfish—it’s self-respect. And if that makes me unpopular, so be it. I’d rather be respected than resented.
I refused to cover my friend’s shifts at work. Being childless doesn’t make me her servant—and I won’t apologize for protecting my peace.
