**Diary Entry**
My grandmother lives with my aunt in a three-bedroom flat in Manchester. The youngest daughter—my mother’s sister—is in her forties but has never lived on her own. No family, no friends, no job—just leeching off my grandmother. Mum pays all the bills since Gran’s pension doesn’t stretch far enough.
I never asked my family for anything, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
——
After the wedding, my wife and I lived in council housing, saving every penny for a mortgage deposit, dreaming of even a tiny flat. We searched forever and finally settled on an off-plan property. But where to live for six months while it was finished?
Renting made no sense—money needed saving, not spending. So I went to Gran and asked if we could stay with her. One room sat completely empty, unused. Part of the flat technically belonged to Mum anyway. Gran agreed straight away, so we sold our place, invested the money, and moved in.
We bought groceries and cleaning supplies, careful not to overstep. Aunt Margaret took our food without so much as a thank you, ignoring us from day one. The moment we walked in, she’d vanish into her room.
We barely lasted a month. Then Mum called, clearly upset, and asked us to leave.
——
Turns out Aunt Margaret threw a fit, ranting about how we disrupted her peace, how we caused arguments between her and Gran.
We packed our things, grabbed our cat, Mittens, and started looking for somewhere—anywhere—to stay. That first night? We slept rough on the street. By some miracle, we found a place the next day. Mum helped with the deposit, thank God.
Gran just bent to her selfish daughter’s will, never once asking if we were alright.
Now? I’ve cut them off completely. Mum keeps saying, *Don’t blame Gran, she’s under Margaret’s thumb*, but I couldn’t care less. Blood doesn’t excuse betrayal.
Lesson learned—family isn’t always the safety net you’d hope for.
