**A Scandal in the Village Because of My Sister**
*”How could you turn them away? That’s your own Auntie Zoe and your cousin Lydia! They’re already struggling—Lydia’s divorced, raising her son alone!”* Mum, Nina, nearly in tears, was shouting at me. Now the whole village is whispering about how heartless I am, throwing my own family out. Neighbours gossip, friends give me sideways looks, and I’m sick of it all. I’m not a monster—I had my reasons to ask them to leave. But who would listen when it’s easier to judge than to understand? I’m tired of defending myself, but I can’t stay quiet any longer.
It all started a month ago when Auntie Zoe and Lydia—with her five-year-old son, Alfie—showed up at our door. Lydia had just divorced her husband, who she claimed was *”no great prize”*. Left with no job or home—their flat gone to her ex—she had nowhere to go. Auntie Zoe, her mum, decided to move from the city to our village because her flat was *”too cramped”*. They rang me, asking to stay *”just until they got on their feet”*. Of course, I said yes—they’re family. My husband and I live in a decent-sized house with our two kids, but there was room. I thought it’d be a fortnight at most. How wrong I was.
From the first day, Auntie Zoe acted like she owned the place. Rearranged furniture because *”the light falls better this way”*, barged into the kitchen to criticise my cooking: *”Mary, you’re making stew without bay leaves?”* I bit my tongue, smiled—but inside, I was seething. Lydia, instead of job-hunting, spent all day scrolling on her phone or moaning about how hard life was. Alfie wasn’t a bad boy, but he tore through the house like a whirlwind, breaking our kids’ toys while Lydia just shrugged: *”He’s just a child, what do you expect?”* I offered to help—look for work, watch Alfie while she went to interviews—but she snapped: *”Mary, back off, I’ve got enough on my plate.”*
By week two, it was clear they weren’t leaving. Auntie Zoe declared she wanted to settle in the village permanently, hinting we should *”build them an extension”*. Lydia chimed in: *”This house came from your parents, Mary—are you saying Alfie and I should sleep on the street?”* I was stunned. So now I was expected to support them because they were *”down on their luck”*? My husband and I spent years working to fix up this house, raise our kids, pay the mortgage. Now I was to share everything with people who couldn’t even say *thank you*?
I tried talking gently: *”Auntie Zoe, Lydia, we’re happy to help, but you must find your own place. We can’t live like this forever.”* Auntie Zoe threw up her hands: *”Mary, are you kicking us out? I’m your aunt!”* Lydia burst into tears, Alfie started whining, and I felt like the worst person alive. But I knew—if I didn’t draw the line, they’d never leave. So I gave them a week to move out, even offered to cover their first month’s rent. But they stormed off to a friend’s place, tossing over their shoulders: *”You’ll regret this, Mary.”*
Now the village is buzzing. Mum came over sobbing: *”Mary, how could you? Lydia’s alone with a child!”* I tried explaining I didn’t *throw them out*—I asked them to take responsibility. But Mum just shook her head: *”The whole village says you’ve no heart.”* Neighbours whisper; one even said I’d *”bring trouble on myself”*. It hurts. I’m not made of stone—I helped where I could! But why must I sacrifice my home, my peace, just to keep everyone else comfortable?
My husband stood by me: *”You’re right, Mary. We aren’t their keepers.”* But even his words don’t lift the guilt. Part of me wonders—should I have waited longer? Given them another month? But then I remember Auntie Zoe tossing my favourite vase because it *”cluttered the shelf”*, or Lydia never apologising when Alfie smashed our lamp. No. My home is my sanctuary, my family’s haven. I won’t let it become a free hotel for those who refuse to help themselves.
Mum says I must apologise, invite them back. But I won’t. Let the village talk. I know why I did it, and I’m not ashamed. Lydia and Auntie Zoe are family, but that doesn’t mean I must carry them forever. I hope they find their way—just not at my expense. As for the gossip? Let it fade. I don’t live for whispers. I live for my family. End of.
