**20th March, 2024**
My heart ached with frustration as I spoke to Mum on the phone. I sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the snow-dusted garden, fighting back tears. “Mum, how could you? What on earth were you thinking when you handed over half the house to Aunt Lisa? And now she’s asking to move into our part for a while! I’m so upset I can’t even think straight,” I blurted out. Silence hung on the other end of the line, while inside me, resentment simmered. Once, her kindness—something she took such pride in—had seemed noble. But now I see where her choices have led, and I can’t shake this bitterness.
It all started years ago when my mum, Margaret Whitmore, decided to help her younger sister, Lisa. Aunt Lisa was in a rough spot—freshly divorced, jobless, with nowhere to live. Mum, ever the rescuer, didn’t hesitate to offer her a place in our home. It was an old two-storey house, inherited from Nan. Mum and Dad lived downstairs; the upper floor sat empty. At the time, it felt temporary—just until Lisa got back on her feet. But instead of finding her own way, she stayed. And then Mum did the unthinkable: she signed half the house over to Lisa, insisting it was only fair. “She’s my sister—how can I turn my back on her?” she’d say whenever I tried to argue.
I was young then, just starting out in life, and stayed out of it. But I remember Dad, Thomas Whitmore, objecting. He grumbled that the house was family heritage, and handing part of it to someone else, even blood, wasn’t right. Mum dug her heels in, though, masking stubbornness as generosity. Dad eventually relented, but I saw how it wore on him. Now, years later, I’m the one paying for Mum’s “kindness.”
I live in that same house now with my husband, James, and our two children. After Dad passed, Mum moved to a flat in London, and the house came to me. But the other half, legally Lisa’s, has been nothing but trouble. She never secured her own place. She still lives upstairs, constantly moaning about her lot, asking for money or favours. I’ve bitten my tongue—she’s family, after all. But lately, she’s crossed a line: she demanded to stay downstairs because her room “gets too drafty” in winter. When I said no, she snapped that I was ungrateful, listing all she’d supposedly done for us. I was stunned—what *had* she done? All I see is a woman who refuses to take charge of her own life.
I rang Mum, hoping for backup, but got sighs and excuses instead. “Love, Lisa’s family—we have to help,” she said. I lost my temper. “Mum, *you* taught her everyone owes her! Why did you give her half the house? Now she thinks she’s entitled to everything!” Mum faltered, saying she’d meant well, never expected this—but it sounded like she was dodging blame. The kindness she’d once worn like a badge now weighs heavy on my shoulders.
I don’t know what to do. Part of me doesn’t want a rift with Aunt Lisa—she’s still family, and I pity her. But I’m tired of her demands, of feeling like our home isn’t fully ours. James is furious, and rightly so: he works hard for our family, and here’s Lisa acting like we owe her. We’ve even talked about selling up and moving, but it’s complicated—this house is my childhood, Dad’s memory, Nan’s legacy. And Mum, though she’s gone, would hate the idea.
Sometimes I wonder: if Mum hadn’t given Lisa that half, would she have sorted herself out? Or am I being too harsh? Then Lisa brazenly asks to take over our space, and the anger flares again. I won’t let my kids grow up in this tension. I want our home to be safe, *ours*.
Yesterday, I tried explaining the strain to Mum again. She promised to talk to Lisa, but I doubt it’ll help. The kindness I once admired has become a burden. I love my family, but I need to protect my home and my peace. Maybe I’ll have to set hard boundaries with Lisa, even if it’s messy. Or maybe I’ll find a way to forgive Mum and accept things as they are. But one thing’s certain: I won’t be held hostage by someone else’s choices anymore.
