We have two children, but we love only one.
I always felt that my parents treasured my sister, Eleanor, more than me. My father, Robert, and my mother, Helen, proved it once more when they took Eleanor and her two little ones, Oliver and Lucy, into their house and told me I had to move out immediately, saying, With your remote job you can afford a flat of your own.
While Eleanor was at university, her parents trailed her around like a doting little girl, handling every errand with the deans office, stepping in whenever she had a lecture, and now looking after her children. They never offered me a hand, and now they are pushing me out of the family home.
Robert insists that, as a man, I should be able to fend for myself, yet somehow the husband of my sisterGeorge, who is older than medoes not have to provide for his own family.
During the heated argument about the move, I foolishly claimed that I was just as entitled to the house as Eleanor and that I deserved a share of it. Helen snapped back, reminding me that she and Robert still lived there and calling me a pig for bringing up the division of property. Eleanor then accused me of trying to drive her and her children out of the flat.
Legally there is no easy fix; I am certain that Robert and Helen could quickly draft a new will and disinherit me.
Can a family really fall apart over a house? I am still their child, yet they treat me as a stranger. It makes me wonder why they had two children at all if one of us is already dispensable.
In the end, Ive learned that a home built on favoritism and resentment cannot stand, and the only lasting shelter is the one you create for yourself with honesty and respect.
