So, this is my story—me, my mum, and my sister, strangers to each other now.
The flat where I live with my husband and our little one, in a town called Oakwood, is legally mine. It once belonged to my grandparents on my dad’s side. After my parents got married, they built a house outside the city and moved there, leaving the flat to my dad. But this isn’t 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 until I was ten. Then, my parents split. Mum took Emily and moved back in with her own mum, while I stayed with Dad. After that, I only saw my mum and sister maybe twice a year—and only because Nan kept insisting. She’d call Dad, persuade him to let me visit. Those trips felt more like a chore than anything else.
Mum always said she’d wanted to take me, that money was tight at first. When I turned sixteen, she finally asked me to move in. But by then, I was used to my life with Dad—quiet, cosy, no drama. Their place was like a packed student house: Mum, Emily, Nan, my aunt, and her three rowdy teens, always fighting over space and stuff. I didn’t want that. And leaving Dad alone felt like a betrayal. So I said no—and from then on, Mum branded me a traitor, saying I’d chosen him over her.
The flat was privatised in all four of our names—me, Dad, Mum, and Emily. Dad tried to get their rights removed, but no luck. When I turned eighteen, Dad married his long-time friend. He’d waited until I was grown before moving in with her, leaving me the flat. He’d visit, cover the bills, help me out until I finished uni and got a job.
Mum, though? She told a whole different story. That Dad had kicked her out, taken me so he wouldn’t have to pay child support, turned me against her. She swore she fought for me, even went to court—but lost. Truth is, there *was* a case, and Dad won because Mum couldn’t provide a stable home. Her version? Just excuses for letting me go.
At twenty-five, I married James. That’s when Mum and Emily suddenly reappeared, demanding we sell the flat and split the money. Dad, tired of their nagging, signed his share over to me and said, “Sort it yourself.” He stepped back, leaving me in the middle of their war. For two years—including while I was pregnant—Mum and Emily made my life hell. They listed their share for sale, even though there was no separate room in the two-bed. They threatened to move in tenants, even tried barging in to live with us, ignoring my right to peace.
In the end, James and I gritted our teeth, took out a mortgage, and bought them out. Dad helped with some of the cash. James signed his share over to me, so now the place is fully mine. But Mum and Emily are still bitter, saying they didn’t get “enough.” They blew the money on holidays, clothes, a car, and fixing up Nan’s place—never thinking ahead.
Emily’s jealous. It eats her up that she went with Mum while I stayed with Dad, who paid for my education and left me the flat. I had stability; they’re still crammed at Nan’s with our aunt’s chaotic family. Emily never studied, works a dead-end job, rents with her husband. But is that *my* fault? They could’ve bought a place instead of a car—but chose instant fun.
Now, I’m with James and our daughter. We visit Dad and his wife, who treats our little girl like her own grandchild. Sometimes we see Grandad—Nan’s gone now. Mum and Emily? Strangers. I don’t care about their lives, and I don’t need their pity or blame. But there’s one thorn—our neighbour, Margaret. She’s pals with Mum and shoots me these looks whenever we cross paths, muttering about how I “slighted” Emily.
When Dad moved out, Margaret kept pushing me to let Mum and Emily live there. Now she gossips, feeds Mum updates about me, whines about how Emily’s “struggling” in worse conditions. I don’t wanna hear it, but she won’t stop, demanding “fairness.” Her words sting, but I won’t justify myself.
I don’t care about their grudges. What kind of family is it when Mum ignored me for years, threatened to move strangers in while I was pregnant? A real mother wouldn’t do that. Why did she barely speak to me? Why didn’t she fight for me when I was a kid? *She’s* the one who made us strangers. Emily could’ve used her head, not blown cash on a car. Their choices aren’t my fault. I’m living my life—no looking back.