Two years ago, my mum married again. It was a surprise to everyone, especially considering her age. She had a beautiful wedding with a dress and guests, and her new husband, Richard, who had moved from a different town, seemed to be the perfect match for her. He didn’t have any property in our small town of Wellingborough, so, naturally, they moved into her one-bedroom flat, a place that had already felt cramped for her alone. But things really started to unravel when I discovered something that shattered not only my trust but my dreams too.
My husband, Anton, and I had worked hard for our dream home. We bought a two-bedroom flat in Wellingborough, and though we couldn’t afford everything all at once, we poured our savings into making it ours. Anton, who serves in the military, was posted temporarily to Kettering, a small town a few hours away, so the flat was vacant for a while. We spent years renovating it, picking furniture, painting the walls, and creating the perfect space to come back to whenever we could. It was more than just a property to us; it was a symbol of our hard work, our future.
Then, a month ago, we returned to Wellingborough. Tired, yes, but excited to finally be home after a long period away. We rushed to the flat from the station, but when we opened the door, we froze in shock. The place was completely transformed — strange children were running around, the kitchen was a mess, and rooms we had spent so long preparing were in disarray. The place we had lovingly crafted was gone.
I immediately called Mum, demanding an explanation. She didn’t seem to understand why I was so upset.
“So what? The flat was empty!” she said dismissively. “Larissa needs a place to stay. She can’t afford rent, and I’m just helping her out.”
My head spun. Larissa, her new husband’s daughter? Who was she to just invite a stranger into our home without a word to us? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“What on earth is she doing here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “She doesn’t even have a job or any way to support herself! Why didn’t you ask us first?”
Mum’s response was as cold as it was hurtful.
“You always think of this place as yours. I didn’t think you’d mind. Larissa’s kids don’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, you’ve hardly been living here. The place was just sitting empty!”
I could feel my anger rising. My dreams, my hard work—everything we had built was being destroyed by people who didn’t care. The kitchen, once pristine, was now greasy, the wallpaper was scratched, and the plumbing was completely damaged. It wasn’t just a flat anymore; it was a symbol of everything that had been taken from us. The home we’d lovingly created for ourselves, ruined.
Anton, usually the calm one, was seething. He stepped in and told Larissa to find another place to live. We gave her a month. But, instead of gratitude, we were met with accusations.
“How can you throw kids out onto the street?” Mum said, tears in her eyes. “You don’t even have kids of your own. You should be helping others! You’re so selfish!”
I felt my heart break. Helping others at our expense? Watching our home, our dreams, be destroyed while we were blamed for not helping enough? It wasn’t fair. The worst part? Mum’s low blow—she attacked us for being childless, using it as a weapon to guilt-trip us into accepting her actions.
“If you want to help so badly, have Larissa and her kids move into your flat!” I snapped, my voice sharp. “This is our flat, and we will live in it!”
With no other option, Anton and I decided to leave for our country house, giving Larissa time to pack up. But we were serious—if the flat wasn’t empty in a month, we’d involve the police. I wasn’t joking. My patience had run out.
How could Mum do this? How could she let strangers move into our home without a second thought? Her desire to be seen as a kind stepmother was destroying the foundation of our family and our dreams.