**Diary Entry – A Village Scandal Over Family**
*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 and raising her son alone!* Mum—Nina Watson—shouted at me, nearly in tears. Now the whole village is whispering that I, Mary, am heartless for kicking family out onto the street. Neighbours gossip, friends side-eye me, and I’m sick of it all. I didn’t do it without reason, 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 began a month ago when Aunt Zoe and Lydia arrived with her five-year-old son, Ethan. Lydia had just divorced her husband, who, by her account, was *“no prize.”* Left with no job and no home—her ex took their flat—she came to us. Aunt Zoe, her mother, decided to leave London for the countryside, claiming her flat felt *“too cramped.”* They rang me up, asking to stay while they found their feet. Of course, I agreed—they’re family. My husband and I live in a good-sized cottage with our two kids, so there was room. I assumed they’d stay a fortnight at most. How wrong I was.
From day one, Aunt Zoe acted as though the house were hers. She rearranged furniture *“for better light,”* barged into the kitchen to critique my stews (*“Mary, not even a bay leaf?”*). I bit my tongue, but inside, I was fuming. Lydia, instead of job-hunting, spent hours scrolling her phone or moaning about her *“hard life.”* Ethan, sweet boy though he was, tore through the house like a whirlwind, breaking our children’s toys—while Lydia shrugged: *“He’s only little, what do you expect?”* I offered help—job leads, babysitting—but she’d sigh: *“Mary, don’t nag. I’ve enough on my plate.”*
By week two, it was clear they weren’t leaving. Aunt Zoe mused about *“staying for good”* and hinted we might *“add an extension.”* Lydia chimed in: *“Come on, Mary, you got this place from your parents—are me and Ethan meant to live on the street?”* I was stunned. Was I now their keeper, just because they played the *“poor relations”* card? My husband and I worked for years to renovate this cottage, raised our kids, paid the mortgage. And now I was meant to share our home 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. This can’t go on forever.”* Aunt Zoe gasped: *“Mary, are you throwing us out? I’m your aunt!”* Lydia burst into tears, Ethan started wailing, and I felt like a monster. But I knew—if I didn’t stand firm, they’d leech off us indefinitely. 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 weeping: *“Mary, how could you? Lydia’s alone with a child!”* I explained I hadn’t *kicked* them out—I’d asked them to take charge of their lives. But Mum just shook her head: *“Everyone’s saying you’ve no family loyalty.”* The local women whisper; one even warned I’d *“bring trouble on myself.”* It stings. I’m not made of stone—I *did* help! But why must I sacrifice my home, my peace, just to please everyone?
My husband stood by me: *“Mary, you’re right. We’re not responsible for them. They’re grown—let them sort it out.”* But even his support doesn’t lift the guilt. Lydia could’ve found work—the village shop’s hiring, or there’s always work in town. Aunt Zoe could’ve gone back to her flat or at least stopped acting like lady of the manor. But they chose to play victims, and now I’m the villain.
Sometimes I wonder: *Should I have endured longer? Given them another month?* But then I remember Aunt Zoe binning my favourite vase *“because it cluttered the shelf,”* or Lydia never apologising when Ethan smashed our lamp. No. My home is my sanctuary, my family’s haven. I won’t let it become a refuge for those who refuse to take responsibility.
Mum insists I apologise and invite them back. But I won’t. 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.
