**Diary Entry – The Village Uproar Over Family**
*”How could you turn them away? That’s your own Aunt Zoe and your cousin Lydia! They’re already struggling—Lydia’s divorced, raising her boy alone!”* Mum, Nina Whitmore, was nearly in tears as she shouted at me. Now the whole village is buzzing with gossip about how I, Mary, heartlessly threw my own family out. Neighbours whisper, friends give me sideways looks, and it’s making me sick. I’m no monster—I had my reasons for asking them to leave. But who’d listen when it’s easier to judge than to understand? I’m tired of defending myself, so I’ll set the record straight.
It started a month ago when Aunt Zoe and Lydia arrived with her son, Tommy. Lydia had just divorced her husband, who, in her words, *”was no prize.”* Left with nothing, no job, no home—her ex took their flat. Aunt Zoe, her mother, decided to move from the city to the village, claiming *”the flat was too cramped.”* They rang me, asking to stay until they got settled. Of course, I agreed—they’re family. My husband and I live in a decent-sized house with our two kids, but there was room. I assumed they’d stay a fortnight. How wrong I was.
From day one, Aunt Zoe acted like it was her home. She rearranged furniture because *”the light fell better,”* barged into my kitchen, criticising my stews: *”Mary, no bay leaves? Really?”* I bit my tongue and smiled, but inside, I was seething. Lydia, instead of job-hunting, spent days glued to her phone or moaning about her hardships. Tommy, bless him, was sweet but tore through the house like a hurricane, breaking our children’s toys. Lydia just shrugged: *”He’s just a child, what do you expect?”* I offered help—job leads, babysitting so she could interview. Her reply? *”Mary, stop nagging, I’ve got enough on my plate.”*
Two weeks in, it was clear they weren’t leaving. Aunt Zoe announced she wanted to stay in the village *permanently* and hinted we should *”build them an extension.”* Lydia chimed in: *”This house came from your parents, Mary. Should Tommy and I live on the street?”* I was stunned. Were we now expected to support them because they were *”down on their luck”?* My husband and I worked years to renovate this place, raised our kids, paid the mortgage. Now I had to share it with people who couldn’t even say *thank you?*
I tried reasoning. *”Aunt Zoe, Lydia, we’re happy to help, but you need your own space. We can’t live like this forever.”* Aunt Zoe gasped: *”Mary, are you throwing us out? I’m your aunt!”* Lydia burst into tears, Tommy started whining, and I felt like the worst person alive. But I knew—if I didn’t stand firm, they’d leech off us indefinitely. I gave them a week to find a place and offered to cover the first month’s rent. They stormed off to a friend’s, snapping, *”You’ll regret this, Mary.”*
Now the village is in uproar. Mum wept when she visited: *”How could you? Lydia’s alone with a child!”* I tried explaining—I wasn’t kicking them out, just asking them to take responsibility. But Mum shook her head: *”The whole village is saying you’ve no heart.”* The local busybodies tut, some even muttered I’d *”cursed myself.”* It cuts deep. I’m not made of stone—I helped as much as I could! But why should I sacrifice my home, my peace, just to keep everyone else comfortable?
My husband backed me: *”You’re right, love. They’re adults—let them sort their own lives.”* But even his support doesn’t lift the guilt. I *know* I did the right thing. Lydia could’ve found work—there are jobs here, or in the nearby town. Aunt Zoe could’ve returned to her flat or at least stopped acting like she owned my home. But they played the victims, and now I’m the villain.
Sometimes I wonder—should I have endured longer? Given them another month? Then I remember Aunt Zoe binning my old vases because they *”cluttered the place”* or Lydia not even apologising when Tommy smashed our lamp. No. I won’t live like that. My home is my sanctuary, my family’s haven. I won’t let it become a dumping ground for those who refuse to take charge of their lives.
Mum says I should apologise, invite them back. Not a chance. Let the village talk. I know why I did it, and I’m not ashamed. Lydia and Aunt Zoe are family, but that doesn’t mean I must carry them. I hope they find their way—just not at my expense. As for the gossip? Let it buzz. I don’t live for whispers. I live for my family. Full stop.
**Lesson learned:** Kindness shouldn’t cost your peace. Setting boundaries isn’t cruelty—it’s self-respect.
