“You think you’ve got problems, little sister? This flat isnt yours to claim.”
My mothers sister never had children, but she did own a lovely three-bedroom flat in the heart of London, along with serious health troubles. Her late husband had been a collector, so her home resembled more of a museum than a residence.
My younger sister, Lydia, had a lazy husband and two children. They lived in a cramped rented room in a student dorm. When Lydia heard about our aunts declining health, she rushed to visitnot out of concern, but to complain about her own miserable lot in life.
I should mention our aunt is a sharp-tongued woman who doesnt mince words and never hesitates to put someone in their place. For years, shed invited me and my husband to live with her, promising to leave us the flat. We had our own home and declined her “generous offer,” though we still brought her groceries and medicine while I helped clean. We did it out of duty, not for the square footage. Yet within days of Lydias visit, she and her family had moved in.
Lydia and I never got alongshed always envied me. I had a hardworking, loving husband, a wonderful son, a good job, a solid income, and our own house. She only ever called when she needed to borrow moneywhich she never repaid.
After I fell pregnant again, I had less time for Aunt Margaret, though my husband still dropped off treats occasionally. When my baby was six months old, I finally visited. As I reached the door, I heard shoutingLydias voice:
“Until you sign that deed over, youre not getting a scrap of food. Crawl back inside, and dont you dare leave the doghouse tonight!”
I rang the bell. When Lydia saw me, she barred the door, sneering, “Dont even think about coming in. This flat isnt yours!”
I only got inside after threatening to call the police. Aunt Margaret had aged a decade since Id last seen her. Tears spilled down her cheeks when our eyes met.
“Why are you crying? Go on, tell her how well we treat you!” Lydia snapped. “Look, she couldnt even bother bringing the baby!”
The spare room held only a bed. The wardrobe was gone, clothes piled on the floor. The collectors items had vanished, and Aunt Margarets fine jewellery was missing. It was clear: Lydia and her husband were living off whatever they could sell.
I excused myself to the loo and texted my husband: *We need to rescue Aunt Margaret. She cant stay here.* Returning, I chatted brightly about my life, squeezing her hand and whispering, “Just wait.” She understood, gratitude flickering in her eyes.
Lydia tried dragging me out while her husband nagged, “Shouldnt you get back to your baby?” Exactly an hour later, my husband arrivedwith a constable. Lydia stalled at the door until I said, “Its just my husband.”
The officer was an unwelcome shock. I led him to Aunt Margaret. “Heres your victim. I heard them denying her food. Theyve sold everythingfurniture, gold, even her late husbands collectables.”
Lydia wailed, but the constable asked calmly, “Do you wish to press charges?”
She got off lightly; her husband served two years. Mum took Lydia and the kids in, though shed disowned her years prior. Furious, Mum swore Id inherit nothingbut Aunt Margaret left me the flat in gratitude.
Now, we visit as before, with a nurse hired for her care. Ill never fathom the suffering she endured under Lydias roof.
*Greed poisons the hand that feeds itbut kindness, even when unreturned, leaves no regrets.*
