Oliver came back from working abroad in Germany to his hometown of York late one evening. As usual, his first stop was his mother’s house. Margaret hugged her son tightly.
“Long time no see, Ollie! I’ve missed you terribly! So, did you make good money out there?”
“Same as always,” he said with a weary smile. “On the way back, it hit me—why rent a flat when I’m hardly ever home? Better to pay off a mortgage on my own place.”
“You’re right,” his mother nodded. “You’re twenty-seven now—time to settle down. And then, someday, kids. You can’t do that without a roof over your head.”
Two months later, Oliver bought a one-bedroom flat in a new-build, furnished it just how he liked, and left a spare key with his mother before heading off to work abroad again.
But the moment he crossed the border, Margaret handed the keys to her daughter, Charlotte. A few years older than Oliver, Charlotte had never held down a proper job, always drowning in debt, waiting for some wealthy prince to sweep her off her feet.
“She’ll stay there awhile, save up, get back on her feet,” Margaret reasoned. “What’s the harm?”
She couldn’t have been more wrong. In four months, Charlotte hadn’t just failed to sort herself out—she’d sunk deeper into debt. When it was time to leave, she simply changed the locks so no one, not even Oliver, could kick her out.
When Oliver returned and his key didn’t fit, he stood frozen in the hallway.
“What the hell?” he muttered, then drove straight to his mother’s.
She admitted, flustered, that she’d let Charlotte stay but had no idea about the locks. Oliver’s temper flared.
“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. “But she refused…”
The next day, Oliver called the police. They forced the door open. He didn’t press charges, but the argument with Charlotte was brutal.
“You could’ve stayed with Mum,” she said coolly. “You’ll be off working again soon anyway. I need a life of my own.”
“That’s not why I bought that flat,” Oliver snapped. “Take your boyfriends to a rental. Get a job and sort your own debts.”
“I’ll manage! Worry about your own life, yeah?”
Charlotte packed and left, but the rift between them was final. Oliver didn’t grieve—he’d known for years she only cared about money.
Months later, with Oliver on leave, he went to help Margaret with her garden. And who did he find there but Charlotte.
“Well, well, little brother,” she sneered. “Conscience got the better of you, so you’re digging potatoes now?”
“Better question—why are *you* here? Need more cash?”
“Mum bought me a flat,” she said without blinking. “For all my hard work.”
“What?! What flat?”
“A two-bed new-build. Fully furnished. On a mortgage. Mum took it out for me.”
Oliver paled. He remembered backbreaking work abroad, saving every penny for a deposit… And Charlotte got it handed to her?
He said nothing. Finished helping, then left. But his chest ached.
A week later, Charlotte texted him—the patio door was broken, could he fix it? He agreed, curious to see her “palace.” The flat was nothing special—no better than his.
“Just the fitting’s gone,” he said. “Need to order a replacement.”
“You sort it. Take the money from Mum,” she shrugged.
“You’re joking, right? Mum buys you a flat, furnishes it, and you can’t even pay for a tiny part?”
“You’re just jealous. She loves me more. Anyway, you can go now.”
Oliver walked out without another word. That same day, he blocked her number. No more calls. No more chances.
“Let them live how they want,” he decided. “I know my place. And no one’s getting my keys again.”
