James came back from working abroad in Germany to his hometown of Oxford late one evening. As always, his first stop was his mum’s place. Margaret squeezed her son tight:
“Lord, it’s been ages, Jamie! Missed you terribly! Well then, did you save up a fair bit?”
“Same as usual,” he chuckled. “On the way back, I thought—why rent some stranger’s flat when I’m hardly home most of the year? Might as well pay the mortgage on my own place.”
“Quite right,” Margaret nodded. “You’re twenty-seven now—time to settle down. And then, kids. Can’t raise a family without a roof over your head.”
Two months later, James bought a cosy one-bed flat in a new build, furnishing it just how he liked. He left a spare key with his mum, just in case, before heading off to work overseas again.
But the moment he crossed the border, Margaret handed the keys to her daughter—Emily. Older than James by a couple of years, she never held down a proper job, always neck-deep in debt, waiting for some wealthy prince to sweep her off her feet.
“Just a short stay—she’ll save up, get back on her feet,” their mum reasoned. “What’s the harm?”
But she couldn’t have been more wrong. In four months, Emily didn’t just fail to sort herself out—she piled on even more debt. When it was time to move out, she simply changed the locks. Now no one, not even James, could get in.
When James returned and tried his key, it didn’t fit. He was stunned.
“What the hell?” he muttered, driving straight to his mum’s.
She fumbled through an explanation—she’d let Emily stay but had no idea about the locks. James was livid.
“One thing letting her crash there without asking me. But changing the locks? She’s not planning to leave, is she?”
“I offered my place,” Margaret defended. “She refused…”
The next day, James called a constable. The authorities forced the door open. He didn’t press charges, but the argument with Emily was brutal.
“Could’ve stayed with Mum,” she said coldly. “You’ll be off working again soon anyway. I’ve got a life to sort out.”
“That’s not why I bought the flat,” James snapped. “Take your boyfriends to a rented place. Get a job and pay off your own debts.”
“Like I need your advice! Sort your own life out first!”
Emily packed up and left. The rift between them was final. James didn’t mourn it—he’d long known Emily only saw family as a wallet.
Months passed. Margaret had a cottage with a garden. James, on leave, went to help with the harvest—and, of all people, ran into Emily there.
“Well, if it isn’t my dear brother,” she sneered. “Guilt got to you, so you’re digging potatoes now?”
“Better question—why are you here? Need money again?”
“Mum bought me a flat,” Emily said without blinking. “For all my hard work.”
“What?! What flat?”
“A two-bed in a new build. Fully furnished. On a mortgage. Mum’s the one on the papers.”
James went pale. He remembered slogging away on construction sites abroad, scraping together the deposit… And Emily just got handed everything?
He said nothing. Finished helping and left. But his chest ached.
A week later, Emily texted him. The balcony door was stuck—could he fix it? James agreed, curious to see her so-called “palace.” The flat was ordinary, no better than his own.
“Fixture’s come loose,” he assessed. “Need to order a part.”
“You order it. Get the money from Mum,” Emily said flatly.
“You’re taking the piss, right? Mum buys you a flat, furnishes it, and you won’t even pay for a bloody part?”
“You’re just jealous. Mum loves me more. Now get out!”
James walked out without another word. That same day, he blocked her number. No more calls, no more meetings.
“Let them live how they want,” he decided. “I know my place. And no one’s getting keys again.”
