Two years ago, my mum got remarried. It was a proper wedding with a dress and guests, even at her age. Her new husband, who had moved from another town, didn’t own any property in our little town of Wellingborough, so they moved into her cramped one-bedroom flat. I found myself caught in the middle of a family drama when I discovered that Mum had given my flat to a stranger, shattering our dreams and trust.
My husband, Anton, and I had bought a two-bedroom flat in Wellingborough, but we weren’t living there at the moment. Anton is in the military, and we had been temporarily posted to a different area, a small town called Kettering, where we were allocated a service residence. We had poured all our savings into turning our flat into a lovely home: renovating it, picking out furniture over the years, painting the walls, and making it cosy. It was our dream, the place we longed to come back to. We couldn’t afford to do it all at once, but we worked hard to make every corner feel like ours.
A month ago, we returned to Wellingborough. Tired yet thrilled, we rushed home from the station. We opened the door and froze: strange children were running around in our flat, the kitchen was a mess, and the rooms were in disarray. It turned out that Mum had invited her new husband’s daughter, Larissa, to stay with her two kids in our home—without informing us, without a word! I was in shock, my heart racing with a mix of hurt and anger.
I immediately called Mum to express how I felt. Her response hit me hard:
— So what? The flat was empty! Larissa can’t afford rent, so I let her stay.
— What on earth is she doing here without a job or means to support herself? — I shouted, unable to hold back.
Mum didn’t even apologise. She spoke as if I should be pleased that my flat had become a shelter for strangers. What about our home? Larissa’s kids had ruined everything: the kitchen was greasy, the wallpaper scratched, and the plumbing in a terrible state. Our hard work, our dreams—everything was trampled. I looked at the chaos and barely held back tears.
Anton, usually calm, was furious. He gave Larissa a month to find somewhere else to live. Instead of gratitude, we were branded as selfish. Mum and Larissa overwhelmed us with accusations:
— How can you throw kids out onto the street? You have no heart! Treating your flat like some kind of treasure! No wonder God hasn’t given you kids! You should be helping someone to get their life together!
I was outraged. Helping someone at our expense? Sitting back while our home was destroyed? Mum had gone too far, manipulating children and blaming us for being childless. It was a low blow. I responded firmly:
— If you want to be a kind stepmother, have Larissa move into your one-bedroom flat. This is our flat, and we will live in it!
Anton and I decided to go to our country house, giving Larissa time to move out. But we warned her: if the flat wasn’t empty in a month, we’d involve the police. I wasn’t joking—my patience had worn thin. How could Mum do this? How could she have the audacity to allow strangers into our home without permission? Her desire to be seen as kind had clouded her judgement. She didn’t consider how much this hurt us and how it would destroy our trust.
Now, I’m faced with a choice: forgive my mum or put an end to our relationship? She hasn’t apologised or tried to understand my pain. Her comments about the children Anton and I desperately want but cannot have yet still sting. Larissa and her kids may leave, but how do I rebuild faith in a mother who betrayed me for someone else’s family? I look at our wrecked flat and feel that something important in my soul is crumbling along with it.