Lucy and her younger sister Margaret grew up in a sleepy little market town in the South of England, where everyone knew everyone, and gossip spread faster than a bad cold. Their lives took very different turns.
Lucy was the town’s golden girl—head girl at school, straight A’s, off to Manchester for university. That’s where she met her husband, tied the knot, and settled down, inheriting a modest flat together.
Margaret, on the other hand, never left home. Two marriages—both train wrecks. One child from each. Whether it was her taste in men or sheer bad luck, she ended up back under their parents’ roof with the kids in tow.
Lucy and her husband had their ups and downs. Money came and went. But bit by bit, they built a life. Started with a studio, flipped it, upgraded to a two-bed. They planned it as a starter home for their son, William—studying medicine, bright future. The idea was simple: once he graduated and married his sweetheart, he’d move in and start his own chapter.
Then, of course, things went sideways.
When Margaret’s son, Christopher, finished school, he also moved to Manchester—college, part-time job, grand plans. But rent was extortionate. So Margaret, with her usual bulldozer charm, begged Lucy to take him in for *just* a couple of years. He’d pay his share, get a proper job, they’d help as soon as they could. Lucy, ever trusting, agreed.
Two years flew by. William got engaged to Charlotte. Wedding plans were in motion. Lucy broke the news to Christopher:
*”Right, you’ve got till summer to sort yourself out. William and Charlotte are moving in come autumn.”*
Fair enough, you’d think. Then the excuses started rolling in.
*”New job, wages are peanuts…”*
*”Girlfriend’s pregnant…”*
*”We’re saving for a wedding…”*
Lucy and her husband caved. Fine, stay till September. Renovations, moving day—everyone knew the plan. Even Margaret nodded along.
*”Of course, we’ll help. We completely understand.”*
Then summer ended. August arrived. Margaret called:
*”Sorry, can’t chip in—our daughter’s due any day, and have you *seen* wedding prices?”*
Next came the guilt-tripping calls from Mum and Dad.
*”He’s your nephew, Lucy! Family comes first!”*
Lucy and her husband folded again. *”End of November. That’s it.”*
Winter came. Weddings happened. Babies arrived. Yet William and Charlotte were still crammed at home while Christopher, his wife Lily, and their newborn stretched out in *their* flat. No sign of leaving.
New excuses every week.
*”Paycheck’s late…”*
*”Found a place, but it’s a right dump…”*
*”Lost my phone, missed your calls…”*
*”Nearly hospitalised with flu—swear I was at death’s door!”*
Lucy called—nothing. Turned up once—door bolted, though she *knew* they were in. Went back with her husband. Christopher opened up—then swung a punch at his uncle. That was the last straw.
Lucy shook with rage. For the first time, it hit her: family isn’t about love. It’s about being taken for a mug. About guilt trips and open wallets.
Then the smear campaign started. Mum and Margaret bombarded William with calls.
*”How could you do this?!”*
*”Lily’s so stressed her milk dried up!”*
*”Kicking out family with a newborn—you monsters!”*
But Lucy was done playing nice. They filed the papers. Police got involved. Two months later—eviction day.
William and Charlotte finally moved in. Fresh start. And Lucy? She blocked every number. Margaret. Mum. The lot.
Family isn’t who shares your blood. It’s who’s got your back. Not the ones who grin while walking all over you.
So—what’s your take? Is family an obligation at all costs, or should respect go both ways?
