Sometimes cutting ties with family isn’t a tragedy—it’s freedom. No one kicked us out, no one outright insulted or cursed us. But one day, Oliver and I realised we’d become nothing more than a cash machine to his entire family. And God forbid you didn’t hand over money the second they demanded it—you’d be erased, ignored, then suddenly remembered only when they smelled pound signs.
It started with simple kindness. We helped where we could—his parents, nieces, nephews, cousins. One favour led to another, and before we knew it, we were trapped. People grow accustomed to generosity fast, especially when it comes free of charge. Gratitude fades, replaced by entitlement: *You gave once, so you owe us forever.*
Our home became a feeding trough—not just for his parents, but the entire clan. We stretched ourselves thin, denying our own needs just to keep up with their endless requests. Instead of thanks, we heard: *“What’s the problem? You’re loaded!”* As if working our fingers to the bone made us millionaires.
Eventually, enough was enough. We started saying *no*. Firmly. Calmly. No apologies. And if they pushed? We got creative. *Money’s tied up in bonds—withdrawing now would cost us.* For the especially persistent, we’d even pull out loan brochures: *“The bank’s happy to help.”* It didn’t always work. Oliver’s sister, Margaret, was the worst.
For five long years, we paid for her daughter Emily’s university—every tuition fee, every textbook. When Emily graduated, we sighed with relief. Finally, we could redirect those funds to something meaningful—like helping Oliver’s mother, Margaret Senior. A saint of a woman, but stubborn. Her house was falling apart: frayed wiring, leaking pipes, rotting windows. We convinced her to stay with us while contractors turned the place into something livable.
Then, like clockwork, Margaret reappeared. Emily was getting married, and—surprise!—they needed cash again. I laughed outright. *“She’s got a fiancé, hasn’t she? Let him pay. Are we relatives or wedding planners?”*
Margaret’s reply was staggering: *“You’re not paying for uni anymore, so why not cover the wedding?”* I was speechless. But the circus didn’t stop there.
Days later, we came home to find Margaret sipping tea in our kitchen, grinning like a Cheshire cat. *“Perfect timing! We’ve got news. Mum’s taking a job to pay you back for the repairs—so you’re free to fund Emily’s big day!”*
I opened my mouth, but Oliver beat me to it. Calmly, he took his mother’s phone and dialed. *“Mr. Thompson? Oliver here. About Mum’s job—plans have changed. We’re taking her on holiday. Indefinitely. Thanks for understanding.”*
Margaret’s face turned scarlet. *“What the hell is this?”*
Oliver didn’t flinch. *“It’s called cutting the leash. The wedding’s your problem—sort it yourselves. You’d even shove Mum into work just to wring one more cheque out of us?”*
Margaret stormed out. His mother fretted—*“Was that necessary?”*—but Oliver just smiled. *“The holiday was improv, but a good one. Let’s actually go. The house is nearly done. We all need to breathe.”*
Three days later, we were in Santorini. Sea air, silence, olive groves. The best decision we’d made in years. And Margaret? We don’t speak to her—or the rest of them—anymore. And you know what? No drama. Just peace.
