Oliver returned from working abroad in Germany to his hometown of York late one evening. As always, his first stop was his mother’s house. Ethel Hughes embraced her son tightly.
“It’s been ages, my boy! I’ve missed you terribly! Did you manage to save a tidy sum?”
“Oh, same as always,” Oliver chuckled. “On the way back, it struck me—why pay rent for a place I barely live in? Better to pay a mortgage on my own flat, even if it’s a stretch.”
“Quite right,” his mother nodded. “You’re twenty-seven now, time to settle down. And then—children. You can’t do that without a proper home.”
Two months later, Oliver bought a cosy one-bedroom flat in a new development, furnishing it just the way he liked. He left a spare key with his mother—just in case—and set off again for work abroad.
But no sooner had he left than Ethel handed the keys to her daughter, Gemma. A few years older than Oliver, Gemma had never held a steady job, was always drowning in debt, and spent her days waiting for a wealthy husband to sweep her off her feet.
“Let her stay there a while—save some money, get back on her feet,” Ethel reasoned. “What harm could it do?”
She was wrong. In four months, Gemma did the opposite—racking up even more debt. When the time came to move out, she simply changed the locks, ensuring no one—including Oliver—could evict her.
When Oliver returned and his key didn’t fit, he was stunned.
“What the devil?” he muttered, driving straight to his mother’s.
Ethel confessed in a fluster—she’d let Gemma stay but never imagined she’d replace the locks. Oliver was furious.
“Letting her stay without asking me was bad enough. But changing the locks? And now she won’t leave?”
“I offered to have her here,” his mother stammered. “She refused…”
The next day, Oliver called the police. Officers forced the door open. He didn’t press charges against his sister, but their argument was brutal.
“You could’ve stayed with Mum,” Gemma said coldly. “You’ll be off working again soon anyway. I need to sort my life out.”
“That’s not why I bought the flat,” Oliver snapped. “Take your suitors to a rented place. Get a job and pay off your own debts.”
“Like I need advice from you! Get married first, then talk!”
Gemma packed her things and left. Any bond between the siblings was broken—Oliver felt no regret. He’d known for years that family meant nothing to Gemma unless money was involved.
Months passed. Ethel had a small cottage with a vegetable patch. During his holiday, Oliver went to help her with the harvest—only to find Gemma there.
“Well, well, little brother,” she sneered. “Conscience got to you? Fancy digging up potatoes now?”
“Just tell me why you’re here. Need money again?”
“Mum bought me a flat,” Gemma declared without blinking. “Reward for my efforts.”
“What? What flat?”
“A two-bed in a new build. Fully furnished. On a mortgage. Mum put it in her name.”
Oliver went pale. He remembered the gruelling construction work abroad, scrimping for a deposit… while Gemma got everything handed to her.
He said nothing, finished helping, and left—but his heart ached.
A week later, Gemma texted him. The balcony door was broken—could he fix it? Oliver agreed, curious to see her so-called “palace.” The flat was ordinary, no better than his.
“The latch is busted,” he said. “You’ll need a replacement.”
“Order it yourself. And get the money from Mum,” she replied dismissively.
“Are you serious? She bought you a flat, furnished it, and you won’t even pay for this?”
“You’re just jealous. She loves me more. Now get out.”
Oliver left without another word. That same day, he blocked her number. No more calls, no more meetings.
“Let them live as they please,” he decided. “I know my place. And I’m not leaving keys with anyone again.”
The lesson was clear: trust should never be given blindly, even to family—for some will always mistake kindness for weakness.
