Lydia and her younger sister Harriet grew up in a quiet little town down south, where everyone knew each other and gossip spread faster than wildfire. Their lives took very different paths.
Lydia was the town’s golden girl—graduated top of her class, moved to Manchester for university, and eventually married a local lad. Together, they inherited a modest flat, where they built their life brick by brick. They scrimped and saved, bought one place, sold it, then invested in a two-bedroom flat—meant as a fresh start for their son, Oliver, who was studying medicine. The plan was simple: once he graduated and married, he and his wife would move in.
Harriet stayed behind. Two marriages, two divorces, two children. Whether it was bad luck or poor choices, she ended up back at their parents’ house with the kids in tow.
When Harriet’s son, James, finished school, he set his sights on Manchester too. He got into college but couldn’t afford rent, so Harriet pressed Lydia to take him in—just for a couple of years. He’d pay his way, find work, they’d help when they could. Against her better judgment, Lydia agreed.
Two years flew by. Oliver got engaged to Emily, and Lydia told James it was time to go—by summer, he’d need to move out so Oliver and his bride could settle in before winter. Simple, fair.
But the excuses started.
“Just got a new job, pay’s rubbish…”
“Girlfriend’s expecting…”
“Wedding’s coming up…”
Lydia and her husband caved. Just till September, they said—enough time for their son to take over. Even Harriet nodded along. “Of course,” she said. “We understand.”
September came and went. Then Harriet rang. “Can’t help him—my daughter’s due any day, and her wedding’s just round the corner!”
Next, the grandparents piled on. “He’s family! Your own flesh and blood!”
So they stretched it till November. Enough.
Winter arrived. Weddings happened. Babies were born. Yet Oliver and Emily were still stuck with Lydia while James, his wife Sophie, and their newborn occupied *their* flat—with no intention of leaving.
The excuses never stopped.
“Paycheck’s late…”
“Found a place, but it’s a dump…”
“Lost my phone, couldn’t answer…”
“Nearly ended up in hospital—dead ill!”
Lydia called, pleaded. Nothing. She went round—no one answered, though she knew they were home. Next time, she brought her husband. James opened the door… and swung at his uncle. That was it.
Shaking with rage, Lydia realised blood didn’t mean love. It meant being used. Milked dry.
Then the guilt trips started. Harriet and the grandparents bombarded Oliver.
“Have you no shame?”
“Sophie’s milk dried up from the stress!”
“How can you toss family onto the street with a newborn?”
But Lydia had had enough. They filed papers. Police got involved. Two months later—eviction.
Oliver and Emily finally moved in. Fresh start. As for Lydia? She stopped answering calls—Harriet’s, the grandparents’, all of them.
Family wasn’t blood. It was who stood by you. Not the ones who smiled while grinding you into the dirt.
So, what do you reckon? Are family ties a duty, no matter what, or a two-way street with respect?
