Margaret regretted letting her nephew stay in their flat—now there are more enemies in the family than neighbours.
Margaret and her younger sister, Caroline, grew up in a quiet market town in the south of the country, where everyone knew each other and gossip spread faster than wildfire. Their lives took very different paths.
Margaret had been the star of her school—earned top marks, left for Manchester, and enrolled in university. There, years later, she met her future husband, married him, and settled in the city after inheriting a modest flat together.
Caroline stayed behind in their childhood home. Two marriages—both failed. A child from each. Whether it was her temper or poor taste in men, she eventually returned to her parents’ house with both children in tow.
Margaret and her husband had their struggles too. Money came and went. But bit by bit, they built their future. First, they bought a tiny bedsit, sold it, then invested in a proper two-bedroom flat. They saw it as a start for their son, Edward. The lad got into medical school, studied hard. They imagined he’d move there after graduation and marriage, beginning his own life.
But nothing went as planned.
When Caroline’s son, William, finished school, he also moved to Manchester. He got into college, intending to work and rent a place—but he couldn’t afford it. So Caroline, ever insistent, begged her sister to take him in for “just a couple of years.” Promised he’d pay his share, find a job, and they’d help when they could. Margaret agreed.
Two years flew by. Edward fell in love, proposed to Olivia. Wedding plans began. Margaret warned her nephew:
“Will, you’ll need to move out by summer. Edward and Olivia will take the flat in autumn.”
Simple enough. But then the calls started.
“New job pays barely anything…”
“Girlfriend’s pregnant…”
“Planning to marry soon…”
Margaret and her husband relented. Said he could stay till September. Then—renovations, Edward’s move. Everyone knew. Even Caroline. She nodded, agreed:
“Of course, we’ll help. We understand.”
But summer ended. August came. Caroline called:
“Can’t help our boy. My daughter’s about to have a baby—she needs it more. And the wedding’s coming…”
Next, grandparents rang. Begged for leniency.
“He’s your nephew! Your own blood!”
Margaret and her husband gave in again. Said, “End of November—that’s it.”
Winter arrived. Weddings happened. Babies were born. But Edward and Olivia still lived with his parents—while “their” flat housed William, his wife Emily, and their newborn. And he showed no sign of leaving.
New excuses every time.
“Paycheck’s late…”
“Found a place, but it’s a dump…”
“Lost my phone—couldn’t reply…”
“Nearly ended up in hospital…”
Margaret called—no use. Went in person once—no answer, though she knew they were home. Second time, she brought her husband. William answered—and threw a punch. That was the last straw.
Margaret trembled with rage and humiliation. For the first time, she realised—family ties aren’t always about love. Sometimes, they’re about exploitation. Manipulation. About being milked dry.
Then the pressure campaign began. Granny and Caroline called Edward.
“Have you no shame?”
“Stress made Emily’s milk dry up!”
“How can you throw out family with a newborn?”
But Margaret had had enough. They filed a report. Went to the police. Two months later—eviction.
Edward and Olivia finally moved into their flat. Started fresh. And Margaret? She no longer answers calls from certain relatives. Not Caroline. Not Granny. None of them.
Family isn’t just blood—it’s those who stand by you, not those who smile while grinding you into the dirt.
So, what do you think? Are family bonds an obligation demanding sacrifice—or should they be built on mutual respect?
