“My mother, like a judge delivering a verdict, demands that I hand over my flat to my younger sister—a flat I inherited from my father. Elsie, my sister, lives crammed in a tiny two-bed in the town of Pinesborough with her husband, three children, our mother, and her stepfather. Their home is like an overstuffed beehive, every corner screaming for space. And now Mum has decided that I, living alone, should surrender my spacious apartment to ease their burden. But I refuse to sacrifice my peace for people who spent years treating me like an outsider.
When I was five, Mum tore our family apart, leaving behind Dad for another man. Crushed by her betrayal, he begged her to stay, but she just screamed that love was dead. His heartbreak tore through me. Soon after, he moved away, unable to watch his life crumble. I stayed with Mum and her new husband, but the house became a prison. The only light was the rare visits to Dad’s, where I finally felt loved—not like a servant.
My stepfather, cold and indifferent, treated me like a burden from day one. With Elsie’s birth, I became invisible. As a child, I was forced into the role of caretaker—nappies, bottles, constant tantrums. While other kids played, I spent weekends and holidays cleaning and babysitting. If I dared complain, I was punished. That’s when the resentment took root—the fact that Elsie was doted on while I was the scapegoat.
Mum made me drag Elsie everywhere—walks, friends’ houses, even my precious visits with Dad. If I refused, I was grounded. It wasn’t a childhood—it was survival. I dreamed of escape. At fifteen, I begged to live with Dad, but he was away on a long assignment. Without him, I felt adrift. When he returned, he saw how Mum treated me and even threatened legal action—but it didn’t stop her. To her, I was just an inconvenience.
I felt nothing for Mum, my stepfather, or Elsie—only emptiness. They were strangers, and I was an unwanted guest in their world. After graduation, I fled to Dad. For the first time, I could breathe. I went to university, got a job, built my life. Dad sold my nan’s old flat and bought a big three-bedroom place. He didn’t put it in my name, afraid Mum’s family would try to claim it. I didn’t care—I knew he trusted me.
A year later, Dad was gone. A heart attack took him—and broke my heart. By then, Mum and I hadn’t spoken in years. Her world revolved around Elsie, who’d gotten pregnant at seventeen, married, and had her first child. Mum and her husband adored her, and I was long forgotten. Not that I cared—I was used to being invisible. I had my own place, a stable job, a future. Marriage? No rush, though there’s someone I love now.
Five years passed. Elsie has three kids now, all crammed into that tiny flat like caged birds. Recently, Mum started calling, accusing me of selfishness, of turning my back on family. Her latest demand hit like a slap:
‘Elsie’s got three kids—they’ve got no room! And there you are, rattling around in a three-bed all by yourself!’
‘So?’ I shot back, fury simmering.
‘Have you no heart? Give the flat to your sister—she needs it! We’re family!’
‘My family was Dad—the one who loved me. You lot treated me like nothing. I won’t clean up your mess.’
‘Ungrateful cow!’ she shouted. ‘We’re your blood!’
‘Blood means nothing.’
She hung up, but she’s not done. Now it’s pictures of my nieces and nephews, begging for pity. But my heart stays cold. I won’t give up my home, my life, for people who walked all over me. Their problems are theirs—not mine. I owe them nothing.”