A Right Proper Drama in the Village
“How could you turn them away? That’s your own aunt Zoe and your cousin Lydia! They’re struggling as it is—Lydia’s just divorced, raising her boy alone!” My mum, Nina, was near tears as she shouted at me. Now the whole village is buzzing with gossip about how heartless I, Mary, am for kicking out family. Neighbors whisper, friends side-eye me, and I’m sick of it all. I’m not a monster—I had my reasons! But who’d listen when it’s easier to judge than understand? I’m done apologising. Time to set the record straight.
It all started a month ago when Aunt Zoe and Lydia turned up with her five-year-old, Archie. Lydia had just divorced her husband, who, according to her, “wasn’t exactly Prince Charming.” Left with no job and no home—her ex got the flat—she was at loose ends. Aunt Zoe, her mum, fancied a move from the city to the countryside because her flat “felt cramped.” They rang me up, asking to stay “just until they got sorted.” Of course, I said yes—family’s family. My husband and I have a decent-sized house, two kids of our own, but there was room. I assumed it’d be a fortnight. Oh, how wrong I was.
From day one, Aunt Zoe acted like she owned the place. She rearranged the furniture because “the light’s better this way,” took over my kitchen, and critiqued my cooking: “Mary, love, where’s the bay leaf in this stew?” I bit my tongue, smiled through gritted teeth, but inside, I was simmering. Lydia, instead of job-hunting or flat-searching, spent her days glued to her phone or moaning about her “rough patch.” Little Archie, bless him, was a whirlwind—smashing our kids’ toys, charging about like a bull in a china shop. Lydia just shrugged: “He’s five, what d’you expect?” I offered to help—job leads, babysitting—but she’d sigh, “Mary, don’t nag. I’ve enough on my plate.”
Two weeks in, I realised they weren’t leaving. Aunt Zoe announced she fancied “settling in the village” and started hinting we ought to “build them a little extension.” Lydia chimed in: “Come on, Mary, you got this house from your parents. Are me and Archie meant to live in a hedge?” I was floored. So, I’m suddenly responsible for them because they’re “down on their luck”? My husband and I spent years renovating this place, raising our kids, paying the mortgage. Now I’m meant to share it with people who can’t even say “ta” for breakfast?
I tried being gentle: “Aunt Zoe, Lydia, we’re happy to help, but you’ve got to find your own feet. We can’t live on top of each other forever.” Aunt Zoe gasped like I’d slapped her: “Mary! You’re throwing us out? I’m family!” Lydia burst into tears, Archie started wailing, and I felt like the world’s worst villain. But I knew—if I didn’t draw the line, they’d be camped here forever. In the end, I gave them a week to find somewhere and offered to cover the first month’s rent. They stormed off to a friend’s, tossing over their shoulders, “You’ll regret this, Mary.”
Now the village is in an uproar. Mum tearfully confronted me: “Mary, how could you? Lydia’s all alone with that boy!” I tried explaining I hadn’t “kicked them out”—I’d asked them to take charge of their lives. Mum just shook her head: “Everyone’s saying you’ve got no heart.” The local gossips are having a field day—”She’ll live to regret this,” they tut. And honestly? It stings. I’m not made of stone—I helped where I could! But why should I wreck my home, my sanity, just to keep everyone comfy?
My husband backed me: “Mary, you’re right. They’re adults—let ’em sort themselves out.” But even his support doesn’t lift the guilt. Lydia could’ve found work—there are jobs in the village, and the town’s not far. Aunt Zoe could’ve stayed in her flat or at least not treated my home like her personal B&B. But no, they’d rather play the victims, leaving me as the village witch.
Sometimes I wonder: Should I have toughed it out? Given them another month? But then I remember Aunt Zoe binning my grandma’s vase because it “cluttered the mantel,” or Lydia not batting an eye when Archie shattered our lamp. No. My home’s my haven, my family’s peace. I won’t let it become a free B&B for folks who won’t lift a finger.
Mum says I ought to apologise, beg them back. Not a chance. Let the village talk. I know why I did it, and I’ll stand by it. Lydia and Aunt Zoe are family, but that doesn’t mean I’m their keeper. I hope they find their way—just not on my doorstep. As for the gossip? Let ’em natter. I don’t live for village chatter. I live for my family. Full stop.
