**Diary Entry – 12th June**
My grandmother lives with my aunt in a three-bedroom flat in Manchester. The youngest daughter, my mother’s sister, is forty and has never lived on her own. No family, no friends, no job—just my grandmother supporting her. My mother pays all the bills because Gran’s pension doesn’t stretch far enough.
I’ve never asked my family for anything, but desperate times called for it.
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After the wedding, my wife and I lived in a council flat while saving for a mortgage, dreaming of even a one-bedroom place. We searched for months and finally put our money into a new-build—still unfinished. But where to live in the meantime?
Renting made no sense; every penny had to be saved, not spent. So I went to Gran, asking if we could stay in the spare room—part of the flat technically belonged to Mum anyway. She agreed happily, and we started packing.
We sold our old flat, invested the money, and moved in. We bought groceries, kept the place clean, but acted like guests. My aunt helped herself to our food without so much as a “cheers.” She ignored us completely, retreating to her room the moment we came home.
We didn’t stay long. A month later, Mum called, uneasy. She asked us—no, *told* us—to leave.
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My aunt had kicked up a strop. Said we were in her way, disturbing her peace, causing rows between her and Gran.
We packed, took our cat Oliver, and started searching. First night, we slept rough. Found a place the next day, thank God—Mum lent us the cash.
Gran just did whatever her selfish daughter demanded. Didn’t care how we’d manage, if we were alright.
Haven’t spoken to any of them since. Mum says not to blame Gran, that she’s under my aunt’s thumb. But I won’t bother with traitors.
**Lesson learned:** Blood doesn’t always mean loyalty. Sometimes, it’s the people who *choose* to stand by you that matter.
