Mother, what were you thinking when you gave away the house?
My heart ached with hurt and helplessness as I spoke to my mother over the telephone. I sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the snow-covered garden, fighting back tears. “Mum, how could you? What on earth possessed you to give Aunt Sylvia half the house? And now she wants to move into our part as well! I’m so upset, I can barely think straight,” I burst out. Silence lingered on the other end of the line, while resentment simmered inside me. Once, her kindness—something she’d always prided herself on—had seemed natural. But now I saw the consequences of her choices, and I couldn’t bear it.
It began years ago, when my mother, Eleanor Whitaker, decided to help her younger sister, Sylvia. Aunt Sylvia had fallen on hard times—divorced, jobless, and homeless. My mother, ever the rescuer, offered her a place in our house without hesitation. It was an old, two-storey home, left to us by my grandmother. My parents lived on the ground floor, while the upstairs stood empty. Back then, we thought it was temporary—just until Sylvia got back on her feet. But instead of finding her own way, she stayed. And then Mother did the one thing I still can’t fathom: she signed half the house over to Sylvia, saying it was only fair. “She’s my sister—how could I abandon her?” she’d say whenever I protested.
I was young then, just starting my own life, and stayed out of it. But I remember how my father, Victor Whitaker, objected. He grumbled that the house was our family’s legacy, and handing part of it to someone else—even kin—was wrong. Mother, though, stood firm, hiding behind her kindness and a sense of duty. Father eventually relented, but I saw how it wounded him. Years later, it’s her “kindness” that weighs on me.
Now, I live in that same house with my husband, William, and our two children. After Father passed, Mother moved to a flat in the city, leaving the house to me. But the half belonging to Aunt Sylvia has become a nightmare. She never found a place of her own. She lives upstairs, forever complaining, always asking for money or favours. I’ve tried to be patient—she is my mother’s sister, after all. But recently, she crossed a line: she demanded to stay on our floor, claiming her room was “too drafty” in winter. When I refused, she accused me of ingratitude, insisting she’d done so much for our family. I was stunned—what exactly had she done? All I saw was her refusal to take charge of her own life.
I called Mother, hoping for support, but got only sighs and excuses. “Darling, she’s family—we must help her,” she said. I couldn’t hold back: “Mum, you taught her everyone owes her something! Why did you give her half the house? Now she thinks she owns the place!” Mother murmured that she hadn’t expected things to turn out this way, that she’d meant well—but I knew she was dodging blame. The kindness she’d once prided herself on had become my burden.
I don’t know what to do. Part of me doesn’t want to quarrel with Aunt Sylvia—she’s family, and I pity her. Yet I’m exhausted by her endless demands, by the feeling that our home isn’t truly ours anymore. William is furious too, and I understand: he works hard to provide for us, while she acts as though we owe her. We’ve even discussed selling the house, but it’s complicated—my childhood, memories of Father, of Gran. And I know Mother would disapprove, though she doesn’t live here anymore.
Sometimes I wonder—what if Mother had never given half the house away? Might Aunt Sylvia have taken responsibility for herself? Or am I being too harsh? Then I remember her shameless request to invade our space, and the bitterness returns. I won’t have my children raised in constant strife. I want our home to be a place of peace.
Yesterday, I spoke to Mother again, trying to make her see my anguish. She promised to talk to Sylvia, but I doubt it will help. The kindness I once admired has become a curse. I love my family, but I must find a way to protect my home and my peace. Perhaps I’ll have to set boundaries with Aunt Sylvia, no matter how difficult. Or maybe I’ll learn to forgive Mother and accept things as they are. But one thing’s certain—I won’t remain a prisoner of someone else’s choices.
