“You think youve got problems, little sis? This flat isnt yours.”
My mothers sister never had children, but she did own a lovely three-bedroom flat right in the heart of London, along with some serious health issues. Her husband had been a collector, so Aunt Margarets home was more like a museum.
My younger sister, Lucy, has a lazy husband and two kids. Theyve been crammed into a rented room in a run-down student accommodation. The moment Lucy heard about Aunt Margarets declining health, she rushed over to complain about her miserable lot in life.
Let me be clearour aunt is a difficult woman. She doesnt mince words and isnt afraid to put someone in their place. For years, she invited me and my husband to move in, promising to leave us the flat. But we had our own place and turned down her “generous offer.” Still, we drop off groceries and medicine now and then, and I tidy up for her. We do it out of duty, not for the square footage.
Within days of visiting, Lucy and her family moved in.
Lucy and I have never got on. Shes always been jealousIve got a hardworking, loving husband, a brilliant son, a good job, a decent salary, and my own home. She only ever called when she needed to borrow money.
But Lucy has a terrible memory when it comes to paying back debts. After I fell pregnant with my second child, I didnt have time for Aunt Margaret, though my husband still dropped off treats now and then. When my baby was six months old, I went to see my aunt. As I reached the door, I heard shoutingLucys voice, sharp and cruel:
“Until you sign over the flat, youre not getting any food. Get back inside, and dont even think about leaving the doghouse tonight!”
I rang the bell. When Lucy saw me, she blocked the door, sneering.
“Dont even dream of coming in. Youre not getting this flat!”
I only got inside when I threatened to call the police. Aunt Margaret had aged a decade since Id last seen her. Tears streamed down her face when she spotted me.
“Why are you crying? Go on, tell her how good weve been to you. And tell her to back offshe couldnt even be bothered to bring the baby!” Lucy snapped.
The guest room had been stripped bareeven the wardrobe was gone, clothes piled on the floor. None of the collectables remained, and Aunt Margarets fine jewellery was missing. It was clear Lucy and her husband were living off whatever they could sell.
I excused myself to the loo and texted my husband: *We need to save Aunt Margaret. She cant stay here.*
Back in the room, I chatted about my year, the babys birth. “Just hang in there a little longer,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. She understoodher eyes filled with gratitude.
Lucy tried to drag me out, her husband nagging about how my baby must be missing me.
Exactly an hour later, my husband arrivedwith a constable from the local station. Lucy stalled before opening the door. I played it cool. “Oh, thats just my husband.”
The officer was an unwelcome surprise for Lucy and her husband. I led him to Aunt Margaret.
“Heres your victim. I heard them denying her food. Theyve sold off her furniture, jewelleryeverything. Her late husband was a collector. There were valuables here.”
As Lucy wailed, the constable asked, “Do you want to press charges?”
Lucy got off lightly, but her husband got two years inside. Mum took Lucy and the kids inthough shed kicked her out years before. She blamed me for involving the police, swore Id never inherit a penny.
But Aunt Margaret left me the flat in her will.
Now, my husband and I visit her like before, with a carer to help. I cant bear to think what she endured under Lucys roof.
