**Diary Entry – 16th March**
The spare room is taken now.
I stood by the kitchen window, watching as a battered old Rover pulled into the drive. A tall lad in a crumpled t-shirt and jeans climbed out, unhurried, then hauled two big rucksacks and a duffel bag from the boot.
“Well, he’s here,” I muttered under my breath, drying my hands on a tea towel before going to greet him.
Tom had grown. The last time I’d seen him, he was fourteen—all bony elbows and sticking-out ears. Now here he was on my doorstep, a proper man, though a bit lost-looking.
“Aunt Margaret?” he asked uncertainly when I opened the door.
“Of course it’s me! Come in, come in, Tom! Goodness, you’ve shot up!” I hugged him, catching the scent of travel and cheap aftershave. “Go on through to the room, make yourself at home. You must be knackered?”
“Nah, I’m alright. Thanks for having me. Won’t be long, just till I land a job and sort out a flat.” He shifted from foot to foot, glancing around the hallway.
I nodded, though doubt prickled at me already. Easy to say, harder to do. His mum—my sister—was the same, always full of grand promises before vanishing for months.
“Through here,” I said, gesturing to what had been my study just yesterday. The desk, the bookshelves, my favourite armchair by the window—all shoved into the bedroom to make space.
Tom hesitated in the doorway.
“Look, I could just kip on the sofa? Don’t want to put you out.”
“Don’t be silly. A young man needs privacy,” I said, though something inside me twisted. Twenty years I’d arranged that room just so—every book, every trinket in its place.
He dropped his bags, eyeing the space.
“Where’ll you work now? Saw your desk here.”
“Moved it to the bedroom. It’s fine.” I kept my voice bright, but it wavered.
Tom didn’t seem to notice, already unzipping a rucksack.
“Mind if I unpack? Everything’s creased from the journey.”
“Course not! I’ll get supper on. What do you fancy?”
“Not fussed. Not picky.” He grinned, and in that smile, I saw my late brother. “Just—don’t go to trouble, Aunt Marg. I’ll turn in early, hit the job hunt tomorrow.”
Supper was shepherd’s pie. Tom ate heartily, praised my cooking, told stories from back home in Manchester. I listened, thinking he wasn’t a bad lad. Just young, still learning responsibility.
But when he vanished into his room after, music thumping, phone chatter loud past midnight, patience began to fray.
Next morning, history repeated. Tom hogged the bathroom while I rushed to work half-dressed. That evening, I found him at the kitchen table with a mate—some bloke called Dave, gold chain, trackies—cracking open lager.
“Aunt Marg, this is Dave. Says he’s got work for me.”
Dave offered a lazy handshake.
“Delivery gig. Cash in hand.”
“What sort of deliveries?”
“Bit of this, bit of that.” He exchanged a look with Tom.
Unease coiled in my gut. “Tom, what about that construction firm you mentioned?”
“Nah, graft’s rubbish. This way, I pick my hours.”
Later, I tried to talk sense into him.
“Tom, love, this doesn’t sound right.”
“Christ, you sound like Mum! I’m not a kid!” He stormed off.
By weekend, he’d moved his girlfriend, Ellie, in—pierced, bleach-blonde, barely nodding at me before vanishing into his room. Their laughter turned to silence. Then came the sounds no auntie wants to hear through thin walls.
Next morning, Ellie showered with my expensive rosemary shampoo, left makeup smears on my towels.
“Tom!” I hissed when he shuffled into the kitchen.
“She just borrowed it. Not like you’re skint.”
“It’s not about money! It’s respect!”
“Respect?” He scoffed. “We’re family!”
A row erupted. Ellie slouched in later, barely dressed, helping herself to my yoghurt.
“My house,” I said tightly.
“And?” She licked the spoon. “What’s your problem?”
That was it.
“Tom,” I said later, voice steady. “You need to leave. Today.”
“Aunt Marg—”
“No. Your choices, your consequences.”
They packed in a huff—Ellie cursing me, Tom sulking. The door slammed. Silence rushed back in, sweet as tea.
My sister rang that evening, screeching.
“How could you? They’ve nowhere to go!”
“He’s twenty-two, Linda. Time he stood on his own feet.”
“You’ve always been selfish!”
“Maybe. But it’s my life. My home.”
Mrs. Wilkins from next door caught me later.
“Good riddance. Youth today—all take, no give.”
I sighed. “Not bad, just spoilt.”
But peace—real peace—is worth every hard word. And at last, I’ve got mine back.
**Lesson:** Blood ties don’t entitle rudeness. A home’s sanctity is non-negotiable.
