James returned from working abroad in Germany to his hometown of Oxford late one evening. As usual, his first stop was his mother’s house. Margaret Hughes hugged her son tightly.
“Long time no see, Jamie! I’ve missed you terribly! Did you make decent money this time?”
“Same as always,” he chuckled. “On the way back, it hit me—why rent a place when I’m barely home? Might as well pay a mortgage on my own flat.”
“You’re right,” his mother nodded. “Twenty-seven’s no age to be drifting. Time to settle down, maybe start a family. You can’t do that without a roof over your head.”
Two months later, James bought a cosy one-bedroom flat in a new development, furnished it just how he liked it. He left a spare key with his mum, just in case, then headed back abroad for work.
But as soon as he crossed the border, Margaret handed the keys to his older sister, Rebecca. A couple of years his senior, she never held a steady job, drowning in debt, waiting for some wealthy knight in shining armour.
“She’ll save up, get back on her feet,” their mother reasoned. “What’s the harm?”
She couldn’t have been more wrong. Four months in, Rebecca had sunk deeper into debt. When it was time to move out, she simply changed the locks—ensuring no one, not even James, could kick her out.
When James returned and his key didn’t work, he stared at the door in disbelief.
“What the hell?” he muttered, then drove straight to his mother’s.
Margaret stumbled through an explanation—she’d let Rebecca stay, but swore she had no idea about the locks. James clenched his fists.
“Letting her stay without asking me was bad enough. But changing the locks? Does she even plan to leave?”
“I offered my place,” Margaret defended weakly. “She refused…”
The next day, James called the police. They broke the door open. He didn’t press charges, but the argument with Rebecca was brutal.
“You could’ve stayed with Mum,” she said coldly. “You’ll be off again soon. I’ve got a life to sort out.”
“That’s not why I bought the flat,” he snapped. “Take your dates to a rented place. Get a job and pay your own debts.”
“I’ll manage without you! Get married first, then give advice!”
Rebecca packed her things and left. The rift between them stayed. James felt no guilt—he’d known for years she only saw family as a cash cow.
Months passed. Margaret had a cottage with a small garden. James, on leave, offered to help with the harvest. And—of all people—he ran into Rebecca there.
“Well, well,” she smirked. “Come to dig up potatoes out of guilt?”
“Just tell me why you’re here. Need money again?”
“Mum bought me a flat,” she said without blinking. “For all my hard work.”
“What? What flat?”
“A two-bed in a new build. Fully furnished. On a mortgage. Mum’s the name on it.”
James went pale. He remembered hauling bricks under foreign skies, scraping together a deposit… while Rebecca had it handed to her on a silver platter?
He said nothing. Helped with the garden, then left—his chest tight.
A week later, Rebecca texted him. The balcony door was broken; she wanted it fixed. James agreed, curious to see her so-called “palace.” The flat was ordinary, no better than his.
“Hardware’s busted,” he noted. “Needs a replacement part.”
“You sort it. Get the money from Mum,” she said dismissively.
“Are you serious? She buys you a flat, furnishes it, and you can’t even cover a tiny repair?”
“You’re just jealous. Mum loves me more. Now get out!”
James left without another word. That same day, he blocked her number. No more calls, no more meetings.
“Let them live how they want,” he decided. “I know where I stand. And no one’s getting spare keys again.”
