**Diary Entry**
The spare room’s been taken.
Margaret Carter stood by the kitchen window, watching a battered old Ford pull into the driveway. A tall lad in a crumpled T-shirt and jeans climbed out, unhurried, hauling two large rucksacks and a gym bag from the boot.
“Well, there he is,” she muttered under her breath, drying her hands on a tea towel before heading to meet her nephew.
Tom had grown. Last time she’d seen him, he was a skinny fourteen-year-old with ears too big for his head. Now, standing at her doorstep, he looked like a proper man—though a slightly lost one.
“Aunt Margaret?” he asked tentatively as she opened the door.
“Of course it’s me! Come in, Tom. Goodness, look how tall you’ve got!” She hugged him, catching the scent of travel and cheap aftershave. “Go on through, make yourself at home. Tired from the journey?”
“Nah, not too bad. Thanks for having me. I won’t be long—just till I find work and a flat.” He shuffled awkwardly, glancing around the hallway.
Margaret nodded, though doubt had already crept in. Words were easy; actions were another matter. His mother—her sister—had always made grand promises, only to vanish for months.
“Come this way.” She gestured to what had been her study until yesterday. The desk, the bookshelves, her favourite reading chair by the window—all had been crammed into the bedroom to make space.
Tom paused in the doorway.
“Look, maybe I should just kip on the sofa? Don’t want to put you out.”
“Don’t be silly. A young man needs his privacy.” Her voice stayed light, though something tightened inside. Twenty years she’d spent arranging that room. Every object had its place, its story.
Tom dropped his bags, eyeing the room.
“Where’ll you work now? I saw the desk in here.”
“Moved it to the bedroom. No bother.” She forced a cheeriness she didn’t feel.
He didn’t seem to notice, already unzipping a rucksack.
“Mind if I unpack? Everything’s creased from the trip.”
“Course not. I’ll start supper. What do you fancy?”
“Not fussed. I’ll eat anything.” He grinned, and in that smile, she saw her late brother. “But don’t go to trouble. I’ll be knackered tonight, and tomorrow I’m job-hunting early.”
She nodded and turned for the kitchen, listening to the thuds of rearranged furniture behind her.
Over dinner, Tom talked big—construction jobs, good pay, his own place in a month or two.
“What about college?” Margaret asked. “Your mum said you were at technical school.”
He grimaced.
“Dropped out. Too much theory. I’d rather work with my hands.”
“Shame. Qualifications help.”
“You’re an accountant, got all the certificates—how much d’you earn a month?” He shrugged. “I’ll make that in a week on site.”
She said nothing. Explaining she worked for more than money—that she *liked* her job—was pointless.
The next morning, she woke to the shower running. Half-six. She usually rose at seven-thirty, took her time over breakfast. Now Tom claimed the bathroom when she needed it.
“Tom, I’ve got work!” she called through the door.
“Five minutes, Aunt Margaret!”
Twenty minutes later, she was rushing out, half-dressed, no breakfast.
“Rough night?” her colleague Brenda asked at the office.
“Nephew’s staying.”
“How long?”
“Says till he finds work and a flat.”
Brenda gave a knowing look.
“Had my sister’s cousin’s boy camped out eighteen months. Same story.”
By evening, Tom hadn’t left the flat. The sink held dirty plates; breadcrumbs and an empty baked-bean tin littered the table.
“Job hunt go well?” she asked.
“Tomorrow. Had a headache today.”
He’d promised to help, so she asked him to fix the bathroom bulb (burned out a week—she’d not got round to it). She handed him a fiver—bulbs cost two quid at most.
He returned with the bulb, fags, and an energy drink.
“Your change,” he said, handing her fifty pence.
“The rest?”
“Needed smokes. And this.” He jerked the can. “That alright?”
She bit back a remark. Not worth the row over a few quid.
At supper, he joked, praised her cooking, seemed decent enough. Just young. Irresponsible.
Then the music blared. The late phone calls. The patience wore thin.
By weekend, it was worse. A girl—Lacey, bleach-blonde, barely dressed—lounged in *her* kitchen, eating *her* yoghurt straight from the pot.
*”Lacey, could you dress?”*
“What’s wrong? We’re at home.”
*”My* home.”
Tom called *her* stingy. The girl called her worse.
That evening, Margaret sat him down.
“You need to leave. Today.”
“But we’ve nowhere—”
“Then sort it. You’re twenty-two.”
After they’d gone (slamming doors, muttered insults), she scrubbed the spare room clean of their mess. Sat in her reclaimed chair. Breathed.
Silence.
Her sister rang, furious. *How could you?*
“He’s grown. Time he acted it.”
Later, Brenda said, “Good riddance. Youth today—no respect.”
Maybe. But mostly, Margaret thought, they’d never been taught better.
And she’d learned something too: no kindness is worth your peace. A home should be yours—not just a roof, but a place where you decide who stays, who goes, and when the doors stay shut.
(Word count preserved; cultural references adapted—English names, £ currency, regional phrasing, idioms like “kip” for sleep, “knackered” for tired, etc.)
