My name is Katherine. My family history is a tangled mess of heartache and loss. When I was five, my parents divorced. Mum filed for divorce after falling for another man and soon remarried. Dad, however, never forgot about me—he paid child support, took me on weekends to his home in the outskirts of Manchester, and his love was my lifeline in those dark years.
Later, Dad married a woman named Elizabeth, a widow with two kids from her first marriage—Oliver and Emily. I bonded with them instantly. Weekends at Dad’s became the highlight of my life—I felt wanted, part of their warm little world. Going back to Mum’s was the last thing I wanted—it just wasn’t the same.
Mum had two more children with her new husband—a boy and a girl. Together, they started a business, but it flopped spectacularly. Debt piled up like dirty laundry. They had to sell their spacious flat in central Manchester and downsize to a cramped two-bed on the outskirts. Five people in two rooms—it became unbearable.
Mum’s husband turned to drink. She threw herself into work, and teenage me? Left holding the baby—literally. It broke me. One day, I packed my bags and moved in with Dad. I never saw Mum again. All I knew was my half-siblings ended up in foster care, and she lost parental rights. Her husband vanished like a bad hangover.
At Dad’s, I finally breathed. Elizabeth and her mum, Grandma Dorothy, treated me like their own. Years flew by, and here I am at 34—married, with two kids of my own. Oliver and Emily started families too. We became a proper little tribe, bound not just by blood but by something warmer.
When Grandma Margaret—Mum’s mother—passed, she left me her cottage in a quiet village near Manchester. A year later, Dad died too. He left his flat to Oliver and Emily and his car to me. There was also a half-finished holiday home—we decided to fix it up instead of selling, a place for all of us to gather.
Then, out of the blue, *she* appeared—Mum. Twenty years of radio silence, and she tracks down my address like a detective hunting a lead.
*”Heard Gran left you the cottage,”* she opened, no pleasantries. *”What’d you get from your dad? You’ve got a brother and sister! Where’s the fairness? That’s not just your inheritance—it’s ours. Sell it all, split it three ways.”*
I stood there, gobsmacked. This woman, who’d abandoned me, now wanted to cash in on what I held dear?
*”Not a chance,”* I said flatly. *”Leave.”*
Maybe it’s harsh, but I feel no guilt. She’s a stranger. Her other kids? Strangers too. My real family? Oliver, Emily, Elizabeth. They’re the ones who stuck by me through thick and thin.
We finished the holiday home. Now it’s our happy place—where the kids, Oliver, Emily, Elizabeth, and I laugh, remember Dad and Gran, and make plans. And Mum? She’s in the past, right where she belongs. I owe her nothing, and my conscience is clear.
