Relatives began to appear the moment I finished raising a house on the coast.
I was born in a tiny village tucked away in the English Midlands. I am twentytwo now, and my mother and father have only just slipped away, so I could leave my little homeland without a pang of guilt. Their funerals were modest; scarcely anyone from the extended clan turned up, even though both of them had scores of siblings.
When the services ended, every relative rushed off with some urgent errand. May God watch over them. The funeral made me realize that staying would only keep the ache alive, so I resolved to go elsewhere.
My hometown had never been a place of promise. It started at the secondary school, where the boys in my form took full advantage of me. After university and a first job I became the perpetual goto lad for every demanding supervisor. I thought it over and decided to try my fortune elsewhere. I sold my parents old cottage, packed my few belongings, and set off for a seaside town where I bought a modest plot for about thirty thousand pounds and built a onehundredandfiftysquaremetre home.
When the roof was finally on, I took pictures of the fresh walls and posted them on every social network I could think of. During construction I called countless cousins and aunts for advice, but they all swore they knew nothing, offered no counsel, and gave no help.
When summer arrived, the phones began ringing. Were heading to the coast for the holidays, they said, and wed like to stay in your house while were here. I could have let them, but why?
At the time my parents were laid to rest, none of the relatives managed to travel, and none of them sent a penny. They complained they could barely make ends meet. Now they were suddenly keen to spend a pricey holiday in my newly built nest.
That summer I discovered, in a strange, dreamfilled way, that I indeed had a lot of family, that they all claimed to love me and missed me terribly. Even former schoolmates named Ethel and Harold started sending messages, showering me with compliments, begging for a visit, and offering empty praise.
I grew weary of their hypocrisy. I posted online that it was my harmless fantasy, my little pretend story, and attached a photo of a ramshackle shack. I wrote that Id lost all the money from my parents old house, could only afford that rickety place, and that I was eager for anyone to stop by and maybe help repair it. As soon as the post went up, the relatives and friends vanished again, each claiming urgent business, each as poor as church mice.
Now I lie on the sunbaked beach, wondering why people are so twofaced and why the world can be so cruel. I thought about plastering those pictures on my website, but I decided not to stick my neck out and flaunt a red flag before a bull, stirring envy. Perhaps next year Ill upload a photo of my proper seaside home, just to see what the family hears and says.
