**Diary Entry – A Village Scandal Over Family**
*How could you turn them away? That’s your own Aunt Zoey and your cousin Lydia! They’ve already got it hard—Lydia’s divorced, raising her son alone!* Mum, Nina Victoria, nearly shouted the words at me, her eyes brimming with tears. And now the whole village is buzzing with gossip about me, Mary, the heartless woman who threw her own family out into the street. Neighbours whisper, friends give me sideways glances, and I’m sick of it all. I’m no monster—I had my reasons for asking them to leave. But who’ll listen when it’s easier to judge than understand? I’m tired of defending myself, but I won’t stay silent any longer. Here’s what really happened.
It started a month ago when Aunt Zoey and Lydia arrived with her five-year-old son, Toby. Lydia had just divorced her husband, who, by her account, was *no prize*. Left with nothing—no job, no home—their flat had gone to her ex. Aunt Zoey, her mother, decided to leave the city for the countryside, claiming her flat felt *too cramped*. They rang me up, asking to stay until they found their feet. Of course, I said yes—what else do you do for family? My husband and I live in a spacious house with our two children, but there was room. I thought they’d stay a fortnight at most. How wrong I was.
From day one, Aunt Zoey acted like the lady of the house. She rearranged furniture because *the light fell better this way*, barged into my kitchen to critique my stews—*Mary, really, no bay leaf?* I bit my tongue, smiled, but inside, I was seething. Lydia, instead of job-hunting, spent her days scrolling on her phone or moaning about how unfair life was. Toby, sweet as he was, tore through the house like a whirlwind, breaking our kids’ toys while Lydia just shrugged—*He’s just a child, what do you expect?* I offered help—job leads, babysitting while she interviewed—but she’d sigh, *Mary, ease up, I’m barely holding on.*
By week two, it was clear they weren’t leaving. Aunt Zoey announced she fancied village life *permanently* and hinted we ought to *build them an extension*. Lydia backed her—*Mary, this house was your parents’, but are Toby and I meant to live on the street?* I was stunned. Was I now expected to support them because they were *down on their luck*? My husband and I spent years working to fix this place, raising our kids, paying the mortgage. And now I was to share it with people who couldn’t even say *thank you*?
I tried reasoning with them. *Zoey, Lydia, we’re happy to help, but you need to find your own way. We can’t live like this forever.* Aunt Zoey gasped—*Mary, are you throwing us out? I’m your aunt!* Lydia burst into tears, Toby started whining, and instantly, I was the villain. But I knew—if I didn’t put my foot down, they’d never leave. In the end, 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 arrived in tears—*Mary, how could you? Lydia’s alone with a child, and you kicked them out!* I tried explaining I hadn’t kicked them out—I’d asked them to take charge of their lives. But Mum just shook her head—*The whole village is saying you’ve no heart.* The neighbours gossip; someone even muttered I’d *brought trouble on 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 make things easy for them?
My husband stood by me—*Mary, you’re right. We’re not obliged to keep them. They’re adults; let them sort themselves out.* But his support doesn’t lift the guilt. I *feel* awful, even though I know I did right. Lydia could’ve found work—there are jobs in the village, and the city’s not far. Aunt Zoey could’ve gone back to her flat or at least stopped acting like she owned my home. But they chose to play the victims, and now I’m the wicked one.
Sometimes I wonder—should I have endured longer? Given them another month? But then I remember Aunt Zoey tossing my old vases because they *cluttered the place*, or how Lydia didn’t even apologise when Toby 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 refuge for anyone unwilling to take responsibility.
Mum says I should apologise, beg them to return. But I won’t. Let the village talk. Let them whisper. I know why I did it, and I’m not ashamed. Lydia and Aunt Zoey are family, but that doesn’t mean I must carry them forever. I hope they find their way—just not at my expense. As for the gossip? Let it buzz. I don’t live for their whispers. I live for my family. Full stop.
