So, get this—Oliver came back from working in Germany to his hometown of York late one evening. First thing, he popped in to see his mum. Margaret squeezed him tight and said,
“Blimey, it’s been ages, Ollie! Missed you loads! Did you save up enough out there?”
He just smirked. “Same as always. But on the way home, it hit me—why rent some stranger’s flat when I’m hardly ever here? Better to pay a mortgage on my own place.”
“Spot on,” Margaret nodded. “You’re 27 now—time to settle down, start a family. You can’t do that without a roof over your head.”
Two months later, Oliver bought a cosy one-bed flat in a new build, decked it out just how he liked it. Left a spare key with his mum—just in case—then headed back to Germany for work.
But the second he crossed the border, Margaret handed the keys to his older sister, Charlotte. She’s never held down a proper job, always drowning in debt, waiting for some wealthy bloke to sweep her off her feet.
“She’ll stay a bit, save some cash, get back on her feet,” Margaret reckoned. Harmless, right?
Wrong. Four months later, Charlotte wasn’t just still broke—she’d dug herself deeper. When it was time to move out? She changed the locks. So no one—not even Oliver—could kick her out.
When Oliver finally got back and his key didn’t work, he was gobsmacked. “What the—?” He drove straight to his mum’s.
She fessed up, all flustered—yeah, she’d let Charlotte stay, but had no clue about the locks. Oliver was livid.
“Letting her crash without telling me is one thing, but changing the bloody locks? And she’s not leaving?”
“I offered my place,” Margaret waffled. “She said no…”
The next day, Oliver called the police. They broke the door open. He didn’t press charges, but the chat with Charlotte was frosty.
“You could’ve stayed with Mum,” she sneered. “You’ll be off working again soon anyway. I’ve got a life to sort out.”
“That’s not why I bought the flat,” he snapped. “Take your dates to a rental. Get a job and pay your own debts.”
“Piss off—like you’re one to talk!”
She packed up and left. That was the end of them. Oliver wasn’t torn up—he’d known for years Charlotte only cared about cash.
Fast forward a few months. Margaret’s got a little garden plot, and Oliver, on leave, went to help her harvest. Guess who turned up? Charlotte.
“Well, well,” she smirked. “Conscience got to you, eh? Playing farmer now?”
“Just say why you’re here. Need more money?”
“Mum bought me a flat,” she said, deadpan. “For all my hard work.”
“What? What flat?!”
“Two-bed. New build. Fully furnished. Mortgaged—Mum’s name.”
Oliver went white. All those backbreaking shifts abroad, scrimping for a deposit… and Charlotte just gets handed keys?
He kept quiet. Helped with the veg, then left. But it stung.
A week later, Charlotte texted—balcony door was busted, could he fix it? He agreed, curious to see her “palace.” Turned out, it was just… a flat. Nothing special.
“Hardware’s shot,” he said. “Need a new part.”
“Sort it yourself. Get the cash from Mum,” she shrugged.
“Are you kidding? She buys you a flat, furnishes it, and you can’t even cover a tiny repair?”
“Jealous much? Mum loves me more. Anyway, piss off.”
Oliver walked out without a word. Blocked her number that same day. No more calls, no more surprises.
“Let them get on with it,” he thought. “I know where I stand. And no one’s getting spare keys again.”
