Mother, what were you thinking when you gave away the house?
My heart ached with sorrow and helplessness as I spoke to my mother on the telephone. I sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the frost-covered garden, fighting back tears. “Mum, how could you? What on earth possessed you to give half the house to Aunt Lydia? And now she wants to move into our side as well! I’m so upset I can barely stand it,” I burst out. Mother remained silent on the other end, while I seethed with anger at the unfairness of it all. Once, her kindness—the very thing she took such pride in—had seemed natural to me. But now I saw the consequences of her choices, and I couldn’t bear the weight of them.
It all began years ago when my mother, Margaret Thorne, decided to help her younger sister, Lydia. Aunt Lydia had fallen on hard times—divorced, out of work, and with nowhere to live. Mother, ever the rescuer, offered her a place in our house without a second thought. It was an old two-storey home, inherited from my grandmother. My parents lived on the ground floor, while the upper level sat empty. At the time, it seemed a temporary arrangement—Lydia would stay until she got back on her feet. But instead of finding her own way, she lingered. Then Mother did the unthinkable: she signed half the house over to Lydia, insisting it was only fair. “She’s my sister—how could I abandon her?” she’d say whenever I protested.
I was young then, just starting my own life, and stayed out of such matters. But I remember how my father, Albert Thorne, disapproved. He grumbled that the house was our family’s legacy, and giving part of it away—even to kin—was wrong. Yet Mother held firm, shielding herself behind kindness and obligation. Father relented in the end, but I saw the hurt in his eyes. Now, years later, I find myself in the shadow of Mother’s misguided charity.
I live in that very house now with my husband, Thomas, and our two children. After Father passed, Mother moved to a flat in London, and the house came to me. But the other half, legally Lydia’s, has been nothing but trouble. She never secured a home of her own. She still resides upstairs, endlessly bemoaning her lot and asking for money or favours. I’ve tried to be patient—she is my mother’s sister, after all. But recently, she crossed a line: declaring she wished to stay on our floor because her room was “too draughty” in winter. When I refused, she accused me of ingratitude, listing all she’d supposedly done for our family. I was stunned—what had she ever truly done? All I saw was her refusal to take charge of her own life.
I rang Mother to vent, but instead of support, I received sighs and excuses. “Darling, Lydia’s family—we must help her,” she said. I couldn’t hold back: “Mum, you’ve taught her to expect everything! Why on earth did you give her half the house? Now she acts as though she owns the place!” Mother murmured that she hadn’t foreseen this, that she’d only meant well—but I knew she was avoiding responsibility. The kindness she’d once worn as a badge of honour now burdened me instead.
I don’t know what to do. Lydia is family, and I pity her in a way—but I’m weary of her endless demands, of feeling like a stranger in my own home. Thomas is furious, and rightfully so: he works hard to provide for us, and here comes Lydia, acting as though we owe her the roof over our heads. We’ve even considered selling and moving, but it’s not so simple—this house holds my childhood, my father’s memory, my grandmother’s presence. And Mother, though she no longer calls it home, would surely oppose it.
Sometimes I wonder: had Mother not given half away, might Lydia have found her footing? Or am I too harsh, too unforgiving? Then I remember the way she brazenly asked to take our rooms, and the bitterness rises again. I won’t have my children grow up amid this strife. I want our home to be a haven, not a battleground.
Yesterday, I spoke to Mother again, pleading for understanding. She promised to talk to Lydia, but I doubt it will change anything. Her kindness once seemed noble—now I see the wreckage in its wake. I love my family, but I must find a way to protect my home and my peace. Perhaps I’ll have to set hard boundaries with Lydia, no matter how difficult. Or perhaps I’ll learn to forgive Mother and accept things as they are. But one thing’s certain: I’ll no longer be a prisoner to someone else’s mistakes.
