**Diary Entry**
My mother, like a judge delivering a verdict, insists I must hand over my flat to my younger sister—a home I inherited from my father. Elsie, my sister, lives crammed in a tiny two-bed in Sheffield with her husband, three kids, Mother, and stepfather. Their house is like an overcrowded hive, every inch screaming for space. And now, Mother has decided that I, being single, should surrender my spacious flat to ease their burden. But I won’t sacrifice my peace for people who treated me as an outsider for years.
I was five when Mother shattered our family, leaving Father for another man. Crushed by her betrayal, he begged her to stay, but she just screamed that love had died. His grief tore at my heart. Soon after, he moved to Manchester, unable to bear the ruins of his life. I stayed with Mother and my stepfather, but home became a prison. The only light was the rare visits to Dad’s, where I felt loved—not like a servant.
My stepfather was cold and indifferent, always treating me as baggage. After Elsie was born, I vanished from their sight. As a child, I was forced into caring for her—nappies, bottles, endless tantrums. Weekends and holidays meant chores while other children played. If I dared protest, I was punished. That’s when my bitterness took root—toward Elsie, the golden child, while I was the scapegoat.
Mother made me drag Elsie everywhere—playdates, walks, even to see Dad. If I refused, I’d be grounded. It wasn’t life, just survival. I dreamed of escape. At fifteen, I tried to move in with Father, but he was away on a long business trip. Without him, I felt adrift. When he returned, he saw how Mother treated me and even threatened legal action. It changed nothing—she still saw me as a nuisance.
I felt nothing for Mother, stepfather, or Elsie—just hollow distance. They were strangers, and I was an unwanted guest. The day I finished school, I fled to Dad’s. For the first time, I breathed freely. I went to uni, found a job, built a life. Dad sold Gran’s old flat and bought a three-bedroom place. He didn’t put it in my name, fearing Mother’s family would claim it. I didn’t mind—I knew he trusted me.
A year later, Dad was gone. A heart attack stole him—and shattered me. By then, Mother and I hadn’t spoken for years. Her world revolved around Elsie, who got pregnant at seventeen, married young, and had her first child. Mother doted on her; I was long forgotten. Not that I cared. I had my flat, my career, my future. Marriage? In no rush, though someone special has entered my life.
Five years on, Elsie has three kids now, packed like sardines in that cramped house with Mother and stepdad. Lately, Mother’s been calling, accusing me of selfishness. Her new ultimatum hits like a sentence:
“Elsie’s got three kids and no space! And there you are, living alone in a three-bed!”
“So?” I reply coldly, anger simmering.
“Have you no heart? Give the flat to your sister! She needs it—we’re family!”
“My family was Dad. You lot treated me like air. I won’t fix your mess.”
“You ungrateful girl!” she shrieks. “We’re your blood!”
“Blood? You’re nothing to me.”
She slams the phone down but doesn’t stop. Photos of my nieces and nephews flood my messages—guilt trips wrapped in nostalgia. But my heart stays silent. I won’t surrender my home, my life, to those who walked over me for years. Their problems aren’t mine. I owe them nothing.