It all started when Peter Pan burst into my life—literally, through the window. I was telling stories to my brothers, perfectly content with my feet on solid ground, when this boy in green, dressed in what looked like a repurposed shrub, flew into my room. Not through the door like a sensible person, but through the window. Honestly, who even did that? Of course, it was Peter Pan, the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, but nobody mentioned that he was also the Boy Who Refused to Knock. Seriously. He barged into your life, window open or not, without so much as a “how do you do?”—just whoosh, and suddenly there was a barefoot child in your room demanding your attention.

“Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown-up things again!” he said, all wide-eyed and excited. As if that was a normal way to start a conversation. No pleasantries, no “I’m terribly sorry to disturb your evening.” Just, “We’ll fight pirates and never grow up!” Great sales pitch, Peter, but you might not want to lead with the fighting pirates part. Sounded more like a reason to grow up if you asked me.

Never grow up? It was like he dangled this shiny, exciting thing in front of me, and for a moment, I was intrigued. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to follow him, but a part of me hesitated. There was something unnerving about the way he talked about adventure like it was the only thing that mattered. I loved stories of far-off places, but this was different. It wasn’t a story—it was real, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. Still, adventure, freedom, no responsibilities—it was tempting. Before I knew it, I found myself giving in.

“Second to the right, and straight on till morning!” Peter pointed excitedly as we flew off. My brothers and I were swept away to a place where there were no responsible adults. Sure, there was Hook and his pirate crew, but they were more like overgrown children with swords. And if you thought a world without responsible adults sounded ideal, well, you’d clearly never been the only sensible person in a place where boys used tree bark for currency and the idea of nutrition involved something called imaginary food.

You know what they didn’t tell you about Neverland? Well, let me tell you: Neverland was less “magical adventure” and more “DIY survival camp where nobody knew how to clean up after themselves.” It wasn’t all promises of endless fun with pirates, mermaids, and flying. No, no—it was like being the sole adult in a daycare where the kids had never heard of basic hygiene, or, apparently, common sense. What Peter neglected to mention was that it was a place where fun meant barely surviving sword fights with grown men who really should’ve retired long ago. And don’t get me started on the “flying.” He made it sound so glamorous, but after the first five minutes, you were mostly just trying to keep your nightgown from flying over your head in the wind. Honestly, did he not realize how drafts worked?

Peter’s sales pitch was essentially, “You’ll never have to grow up!” And he wanted me to be their mother. Me. The “mother.” Not a partner in adventure, not a fellow explorer—just the one who got stuck patching up torn clothes and feeding the Lost Boys imaginary soup. Because, of course, they ate imaginary food. I wasn’t sure whether they were pretending it was there or pretending they were full, but either way, I wasn’t impressed. “Oh, Wendy lady, be our mother,” Peter said with a grin, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He needed someone to keep the Lost Boys from setting themselves on fire while he flew off to taunt Captain Hook. Of course, being Peter, he described this whole arrangement as “fun.” Let me clarify: his definition of fun involved flying into certain danger, annoying Hook, and then leaving me to calm down a pack of feral children who thought “bath” was a dirty word. And for all this, I got the glorious title of “mother,” which I soon learned was a fancy way of saying “overworked babysitter.”

Can you imagine? I was twelve! I had no formal training, no experience managing boys who thought sword fights were a valid form of exercise, and yet, there I was—stuck as the head of what could only be described as the world’s most chaotic orphanage. I got stuck with the job of running a chaotic nursery inside a treehouse that felt like it might collapse at any moment. And the worst part? They didn’t even know how to appreciate it. They weren’t kids who needed a mother—they were kids who needed to grow up.

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They never told you that being a “mother” in Neverland meant you got the worst end of the deal. Oh, no—it sounded so romantic, didn’t it? An adventure! Flying off to a magical land where no one ever grew up! But trust me, there was nothing romantic about being handed a broom and told to clean up after a bunch of wild, half-dressed boys who thought dirt was a fashion statement.

Now, Peter—he was the ringleader of this disaster. He called himself the leader of the Lost Boys, but really, he was just the one who shouted, ‘Let’s do something dangerous!’ and then flew off when things got complicated. Peter was like a child who forgot he was a child and decided to make it everyone else’s problem. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t grow up—he wouldn’t mature. He treated life like one big joke, and me? I was the punchline. He’d zip around Neverland, stirring up trouble, and then expect me to tell everyone a nice story about it at the end of the day. ‘Tell us a story, Wendy! Tell us about the time Peter fought the pirates!’ they’d say, as if I didn’t already have enough to do.

Oh, sure, he was fun for the first few minutes. Who wouldn’t be, with all that flying and swordplay? But you know what wasn’t fun? Living with someone who thought every day was just another opportunity to cause havoc, leaving others to clean up the mess. After a day of mending socks, I’d return to Peter floating mid-air, looking for his shadow, oblivious to everything. And that was when it really started to sink in: he would never understand.

And speaking of the Lost Boys… oh, the Lost Boys, bless their hearts, but they’re a disaster. They’re sweet, they tried. But the hygiene! Honestly, you’ve never seen such filth. They’ve lived in that treehouse so long, I wasn’t sure if they were wearing leaves or just covered in dirt. The mess they created was impressive. Every day brought new challenges—torn clothes, lost teeth—sometimes I wondered if they were gnawing on rocks.

Of course, Peter wasn’t alone in his antics. Enter Tinker Bell, Peter’s not-at-all-sweet fairy sidekick. You know, I used to think fairies were adorable little creatures who spread joy and glitter. Well, whoever told me that had clearly never met this one. Turns out, Tinker Bell spreads jealousy, and mean-spirited glares, not glitter. She was like a flying baby throwing a tantrum in a tutu. The moment she saw me, she gave me that look—like I was encroaching on her territory. She even had the Lost Boys try to shoot me out of the sky—just for standing too close to Peter. “You silly ass!” Tinker Bell cried, flitting around in frustration. Murdered! Who even does that? Imagine being so threatened by a twelve-year-old girl that you resort to trying to kill me with arrows.

And let’s not forget Captain Hook, a real gem in this island of nonsense. The villain in this absurd circus. The scary pirate who terrorized Neverland and fought Peter with a vengeance. Or at least that was what Peter would have you believe. Hook was a pirate, sure, but really, he was just a man tormented by his own nightmares—driven mad by the ticking crocodile. His life was a ticking nightmare, and Peter was out there, making sure Hook never got a moment’s peace. You could hardly blame Hook for being grumpy. He was the adult on this island, and Peter had turned his misery into a hobby.

One day, after yet another exhausting episode of “Let’s Almost Get Killed By Pirates,” I reached my breaking point. We were dangling from the side of Hook’s ship—again—when it hit me. Peter wasn’t the hero of this story. He was the problem. Every day it was the same—taunt Hook, start a fight, and leave me to deal with the fallout. I was done. Absolutely done.

That was when it hit me. This whole thing—Neverland, Peter, the Lost Boys—it wasn’t an adventure. It was babysitting. And the person who needed the most babysitting was Peter Pan himself. The boy was a menace. He might never have grown up, but he also never learned. Every day, it was the same reckless stunts, the same irresponsible games, and guess who was always left to pick up the pieces? Me. The ‘mother.’”

I’d had enough.

“Peter,” I said, untangling myself from the ship’s rigging, “we’re leaving. Now.”

Peter pouted because that’s his favorite response when he doesn’t get his way. “But Wendy, what about all the fun?”

“Fun? Peter, this is chaos. I’m not sticking around to watch you and Hook play games forever!”

Peter stared at me like I’d just told him the sky was green. “But growing up is boring!”

He didn’t understand, of course. He never does. But I was done explaining myself to a boy who didn’t know the difference between fun and catastrophe. So, I packed up my brothers, gave Tinker Bell one last warning glare, and we flew back to London. A place with manners. And tea.

And that is how I escaped Neverland. People ask me if I miss it, and I tell them this: I’d rather grow up and do algebra than spend another day in a place where the biggest adventure is not getting eaten by a crocodile with a personal vendetta. Peter Pan may never grow up, but me? I’ll take maturity any day—preferably with a cup of tea.

And ever since then, I never left the window open again. Locked, in fact.

The end.