**Diary Entry**
My heart ached with resentment and helplessness as I spoke to Mum on the phone. I sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the snow-covered garden, fighting back tears. “Mum, how could you? What were you thinking when you signed half the house over to Aunt Lucy? And now she wants to move into *our* part—just for a while, she says!” My voice trembled. Mum stayed silent on the other end, while frustration simmered inside me. Once, her kindness—something she took such pride in—had seemed natural. But now, I see the consequences of her choices, and I can’t shake this bitterness.
It started years ago, when Mum, Evelyn Hartley, decided to help her younger sister, Lucy. Aunt Lucy was in a rough spot—newly divorced, jobless, and without a place to stay. Mum, ever the rescuer, didn’t hesitate to offer her our home. It was Grandma’s old two-story house in Kent. Mum and Dad lived downstairs; the top floor sat empty. Back then, it felt temporary—Aunt Lucy would stay just until she got back on her feet. But she never left. Then Mum did the unthinkable: she signed half the house over to her. “She’s my sister—I can’t abandon her,” Mum would say whenever I protested.
I was young then, just starting out, and didn’t get involved. But I remember Dad, George Hartley, was against it. He muttered that the house was our family’s legacy and giving part of it away—even to kin—was wrong. Mum insisted, hiding behind duty and goodwill. Dad relented, though it clearly hurt him. Now, years later, I’m the one dealing with the fallout of Mum’s “kindness.”
I live in that same house now with my husband, James, and our two kids. After Dad passed, Mum moved into a flat in London, and the house came to me. But Aunt Lucy still owns half—and it’s become a nightmare. She never found her own place. She lives upstairs, constantly complaining and asking for money or favours. I tried to be patient—she’s family, after all. But recently, she crossed a line: she demanded to stay downstairs in *our* half because her room was “too drafty” in winter. When I refused, she lashed out, calling me ungrateful and listing all she’d done for us. I was stunned—what *had* she done, besides mooch? All I see is her refusal to take charge of her own life.
I rang Mum, hoping for support, but all I got were sighs and excuses. “Oh, love, Lucy’s not a stranger—we must help her,” she said. I snapped, “Mum, you *enabled* this! Why did you give her half the house? Now she thinks she’s entitled to everything!” Mum faltered, saying she’d never meant for it to turn out like this, that she’d only wanted to help. But it felt like she was dodging responsibility. The kindness she’d once worn as a virtue now weighed on *my* shoulders.
I don’t know what to do. Part of me doesn’t want a rift with Aunt Lucy—she’s family, and I do pity her. But I’m exhausted by her demands and this nagging sense that our home isn’t truly ours anymore. James is furious, and rightly so—he works hard to provide for us, and now Aunt Lucy acts like we owe her. We’ve even talked about selling up and moving, but it’s complicated. This house holds my childhood, memories of Dad, of Grandma. And I know Mum would object, even though she’s not here.
Sometimes I wonder: if Mum hadn’t given half the house away, would Aunt Lucy have sorted herself out? Or am I being too harsh? Then I remember her shamelessness—invading our space, expecting more—and the anger flares again. I won’t let my kids grow up in this tension. I want our home to be a place of peace.
Yesterday, I tried explaining the strain to Mum. She promised to talk to Aunt Lucy, but I doubt it’ll change anything. Once, I admired her generosity. Now, I see how it backfires. I love my family, but I must protect my home and my peace. Maybe I’ll set firm boundaries with Aunt Lucy—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 any longer.
