“I’m sorry, Rosalind, but she’ll be staying with you now…”
Rosalind and Oliver had been tidying the garden since morning. Leaves drifted steadily from the trees, blanketing the ground in gold, and the quiet was so peaceful that thinking of anything unpleasant seemed impossible. Then, suddenly, the silence shattered with the ring of a mobile phone. Oliver frowned at the screen.
“Mum… Let’s see what’s wrong now.”
He switched to speakerphone, and Margaret’s voice came through sharp and urgent:
“Oliver, get ready! Come to my place immediately.”
“What’s happened?” he asked, tensing.
“We’re fetching Emily and the children. That’s it—it’s over! Her husband kicked them out.”
Rosalind, standing nearby with a rake, paled. Emily—Oliver’s sister. With children. Homeless?
The house she and Oliver lived in had been her dream. Spacious, with a cosy conservatory, a garden, brand-new furniture—they’d built it together, pouring in not just money but heart. Oliver had thought the idea mad: selling their flat, moving out of London, starting from scratch. But Rosalind knew how to persuade him. And now the house was exactly as she’d pictured it.
At first, everything was perfect. Even Oliver’s mother, who’d initially grumbled, had marvelled at the housewarming: “Rosalind, you clever thing—this place is a dream!”
Then it began.
Every Friday without fail, Margaret arrived—and with her came Emily, her husband Daniel, and their three children. They didn’t just visit. They took over. Cooking? Rosalind’s job. Cleaning? Hers, too. No help, no thanks. When she brought it up with Oliver, he waved her off: “Oh, come on. They’re family. We’re helping them out.”
Once, she even dared ask Emily to wash the dishes. The reply? “Are you joking? I’ve just come back from the salon—I’ll ruin my nails.” Rosalind clenched her jaw and did them herself in silence.
When Emily turned up alone, without Daniel, Rosalind felt a flicker of relief. One less. But soon, worry replaced it—Emily drifted through the house like a ghost, sobbing at night, snapping at the children. Then Margaret explained: Daniel had filed for divorce. Worse, he’d thrown them out, claiming the flat was his and there was nothing to share.
“But I can’t possibly take her in!” Margaret defended herself. “I’ve got my own life now. I’m getting remarried. She’ll have to stay with you.”
Rosalind froze. With them? The children too? For how long?
Oliver lowered his gaze.
“Can we really turn her away? She’s family. We’ve got to help.”
Emily moved in. And if before, Rosalind could at least breathe on weekends, now—it was a constant whirlwind of mealtimes and chaos. Neither Emily nor the children lifted a finger—everything fell on her. And Oliver? He just grew irritable: “Stop moaning. It won’t be forever.”
After two months, Rosalind snapped. Following yet another row, she packed her things and drove to her friend’s.
Then Margaret called, icy with certainty:
“Good. Walk away. You don’t deserve our name. Oh, and the house? It’ll stay with Emily. Oliver built it on our land. You’ve no claim to anything here.”
Oliver realised his mistake too late. He went to Rosalind himself. Told her he’d kicked Emily and the children out, that he’d finally seen where his true family was. He wanted her back.
Rosalind returned. But not the same. Stronger. And with one condition: never again would outsiders invade her home.
Margaret cut them off. But Rosalind didn’t regret it.
Sometimes, to build your own happiness, you have to learn to say “no”—even to those you once called family.
