Grandma listened to my aunt and threw us out—my husband and me. The first night, we had to sleep on the street.
My nan lives with my aunt in a three-bedroom flat. The youngest daughter, my mum’s sister, is forty but has never lived on her own. She has no family, no friends, no job—Nan supports her entirely. My mum pays all the bills because Nan’s pension doesn’t stretch far enough.
I never asked my family for anything, but tough times came, and I had no choice.
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After the wedding, my husband and I lived in council housing. We were saving for a mortgage, dreaming of even a tiny flat of our own. After searching for options, we decided to buy a place still under construction. But where could we stay for six months?
Renting didn’t make sense—we needed every penny for savings, not wasted on temporary digs. So I went to Nan and asked if we could stay with her. One room was empty, and part of the flat technically belonged to my mum anyway. Nan happily agreed, so we started packing.
We sold our council flat, put the money into the new place, and moved in with Nan. We bought groceries and cleaning supplies, careful not to overstep—like guests, not family. My aunt helped herself to our food without so much as a thanks. From day one, she ignored us, retreating to her room the moment we came home.
We didn’t stay long. A month later, my mum called, anxious, and asked us to leave.
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My aunt had kicked up a fuss with Nan. Said we were in the way, disturbing her peace, turning the house upside down.
We packed our things, grabbed our cat, and started flat-hunting. That first night, we slept rough. By the next day, we’d found somewhere—thank God my mum helped with the rent.
Nan just did whatever her spiteful daughter demanded. Didn’t care how we’d manage, if we were safe, if we’d be alright.
Since then, I’ve cut ties with that side of the family. My mum begs me not to hold a grudge—says Nan’s under my aunt’s thumb—but I don’t care. I won’t stay close to people who’d turn on their own.
