Last night, my husband had the fiercest row of his life with his younger sister. Until then, he’d been her lifeline—shielding her, making excuses, helping, forgiving. He coddled her like a child, even when she acted the fool as a grown woman. But what she did now crossed every line. I never imagined someone could treat their own mother like this.
Emily, my sister-in-law, was always… difficult. The sort who thinks the world owes her everything. Always someone else’s fault, always someone else’s duty—never hers. Money troubles, housing woes, failed marriages—each time, of course, her brother, my husband Thomas, dragged her through it. She “borrowed” pounds but the word “repay” didn’t exist for her. He knew, I knew, everyone knew—she’d never give a penny back.
Their mum, Margaret, raised them alone. Her husband left for another woman, then abandoned her too. The children meant nothing to him—no child support, no involvement. Just a name on paper. So Margaret carried it all, and naturally, she spoiled the youngest—as happens. Emily got the best clothes, the finest gifts, all the attention. Thomas learned responsibility early—helping, working, stepping up.
But Emily grew into someone impossible. By her teens, she was tangled with the wrong crowd, barely scraped through school, refused further education. Later, Thomas paid for her beauty courses—wasted money. She wouldn’t work, flaked on clients, missed appointments, broke promises.
Twice married, twice wrecked by her own foolishness. Decent, patient men, but Emily demanded the world revolve around her. Didn’t last. Now—no money, no home, no job. And her grand new scheme? Sell Margaret’s flat, stash her in a care home, buy a studio, and open her “dream beauty salon.”
When I found out, I shook. Not from Emily—from Margaret herself. She invited me for tea, sat across from me, looked me in the eye and whispered, as if afraid to say it aloud: “My daughter wants me gone. For good. Sell my home, dump me in that place. I thought it a joke, but she means it…” Then—tears. Watching that frail woman clutch her cup with trembling hands, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
She begged me not to tell Thomas—”His heart won’t take it.” But how could I stay silent? I went home and told him, calm but aching.
He was quiet. Then he leapt up, grabbed his coat, and twenty minutes later, stood at Emily’s door. He returned an hour later. Fury, disappointment, bitterness in his eyes.
“I threw her out,” was all he said. “Told her never to go near Mum again, never darken our doorstep. She screamed, raged, blamed you—said you ‘snitched’ and that you ‘coveted’ Mum’s flat. Swore she’d ‘make us all pay.’”
But I’m not at fault. I did what I had to. Because if I hadn’t spoken, Emily would’ve worn Margaret down, and in her weakness, she’d have agreed—for her daughter’s “sake.” Left with nothing in her old age.
Now Thomas says—forget her. Block her. Don’t you dare speak to her. But Margaret still grieves. A daughter’s a daughter, however rotten. Can’t forgive, can’t understand.
And I’ve one question for you, readers: what if Thomas had done differently? Say we took Margaret in, left Emily the flat? Would she have cared for her? Or would she have pushed her out in the end? Why can’t a grown woman live with her own mother if she’s so desperate? Or was my husband right to cut the cord?
Sometimes, to protect family, you have to sever what’s already bleeding.