Me, my mum, and my sister—we might as well be strangers.
The flat I live in now with my husband and our little one, right here in Chester, is legally mine. It used to belong to my grandparents on my dad’s side. After my parents got married, they built a house out in the countryside and moved there, leaving the flat to my dad. But this isn’t a story about property—it’s about how my mum and sister became strangers to me, how their greed and betrayal snapped the last threads tying us together.
I was born first, and two years later, my sister Emily came along. We lived in that flat till I was about ten. That’s when my parents split up. Mum took Emily and moved in with *her* mum, while I stayed with Dad. After that, I only saw my mum and sister maybe twice a year—and even then, only because Nan kept pushing for it. She’d ring my dad, practically beg him to send me over for visits. Those trips felt more like a duty than anything else.
Mum always swore she *wanted* to take me in, but money was tight at first. When I turned sixteen, she finally asked me to come live with her. But by then, I was used to life with Dad—quiet, cosy, no drama. Their place was like some overcrowded student flat: Mum, Emily, Nan, my aunt and her three loud teens, all crammed in together, fighting over space and who used what. I didn’t *want* that. Besides, leaving Dad alone felt like a betrayal. So I said no—and from then on, Mum branded me a traitor, claiming I’d *chosen* Dad over her.
We privatised the flat with all four of us on the deed—me, Dad, Mum, and Emily. Dad tried to get them taken off, but it didn’t work. When I turned eighteen, he married his long-time girlfriend. He didn’t want to bring her into the house while I was growing up, but now he moved in with her, leaving me the flat. He still dropped by, covered the bills, helped out with money till I finished uni and got a proper job.
Mum, though? She spun a whole different story—that Dad *kicked* her out, took me just to dodge child support, and turned me against her. She swore she *fought* for me, even took it to court, but lost. I know the truth: there *was* a case, but Dad won because Mum couldn’t give me a stable home. All her stories? Just excuses for never really caring.
At twenty-five, I married Daniel. That’s when Mum and Emily suddenly reappeared, demanding we *sell* the flat. Dad, sick of their nonsense, signed his share over to me and said, “Sort it yourself.” He stepped back, leaving me in the middle of their mess. For *two* years—even while I was pregnant—they made my life hell. They listed their shares for sale, even though there wasn’t a proper bedroom for them in the two-bed flat. They threatened to move strangers in, even tried to *force* their way in to live with us, ignoring my right to peace.
In the end, Daniel and I gritted our teeth, took out a mortgage, and *bought* them out. Dad helped with some of the cash. Daniel transferred his share to me, so now the flat’s fully mine. But Mum and Emily are still *fuming* that they “didn’t get enough.” They blew the money on holidays, clothes, a car, and doing up Nan’s house—not a single thought for the future.
Emily’s bitter. She can’t stand that she left with Mum while I stayed with Dad, who paid for my degree and left me the flat. I had a quiet life, while she’s stuck sharing with Nan and our cousin’s chaotic family. She never went to uni, works some dead-end job, rents a shoebox with her bloke. But is *that* my fault? They could’ve bought a flat instead of a car, but they chose instant fun over stability.
Now I’m here with Daniel and our little girl. We visit Dad and his wife—she dotes on our daughter like her own. Sometimes we see Grandad; Nan’s gone now. Mum and Emily? They’re strangers. I don’t care what they’re up to, and I don’t need their pity or guilt trips. But there’s *one* thorn in my side—our neighbour Margaret. She’s thick with Mum and never misses a chance to give me the side-eye, whispering about how I “screwed Emily over.”
When Dad moved out, Margaret kept nagging me to let Mum and Emily move *in*. Now she gossips, feeds Mum updates about my life, and moans about how *poor* Emily’s struggling in her “dingy place.” I don’t *want* to hear it, but she won’t shut up, always going on about “fairness.” Her digs sting, but I’m done explaining myself.
I don’t *care* if they’re upset. What kind of family ignores you for years, then threatens to move *random blokes* into your home when you’re pregnant? That’s not what a *real* mum does. Why did she barely speak to me? Why didn’t she fight for me when I was *actually* a kid? *She’s* the one who made us strangers. Emily could’ve used her head instead of blowing cash on a car. Their choices aren’t my fault. I’m living my life—not looking back.