Three weeks after my parents gave my sister the house I’d been paying the mortgage on, they invited me to a “family dinner.”
After some awkward small talk, my mother finally got to the point. “Tessa, as you know, Lily and Jake need their own space now.”
My father jumped in, “What your mother is trying to say is, we can’t live here with them anymore.”
I waited.
“So,” my mother continued, smiling sweetly, “we’ve decided we’re going to move into your vacation home.”
I set my fork down. “Let me get this straight. You gave away the house I’ve paid for for five years, and now you’re telling me you’re moving into my private cottage?”
“Tessa, be reasonable,” my father frowned.
“It’s not like you use it that much,” my sister Lily chimed in.
That broke me. “Are you serious? It’s my property, bought with my money.”
“You can’t mean you’re saying no?” my mother asked, her face paling.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. No.”
The table fell silent before Lily slammed her hand down. “God, you’re so greedy! You’re just jealous because Mom and Dad love me more!”
I stared at her, a sudden, icy calm washing over me. “Really? If they love you so much, and you love them so much, why don’t you let them live here with you? This is a four-bedroom house.”
Lily’s mouth snapped shut. I stood up, my purse in hand. “Mark, we’re done here.”
For two weeks, I blocked their numbers and enjoyed the blissful silence.
Then, one day at work, my phone buzzed.
A notification from the security system.
[Motion Detected: Back Entrance – 3:12 p.m.]
My stomach twisted. I opened the app and saw the live feed: my parents lugging suitcases through the backyard gate—into my vacation home.
I called the police.
They were escorted out an hour later, confused and angry, telling officers they were “just settling into their daughter’s spare property.”
I emailed them that night:
“Breaking and entering is still illegal—even if you gave away my house to your favorite child. The locks are changed. Any further attempt to enter will be prosecuted.”
No reply.
A week later, I got a handwritten letter from my mother.
“Tessa, we didn’t raise you to be so cold. Family comes first. You’ve hurt us deeply. I hope one day you’ll come to your senses. Love, Mom.”
I tore it in half and tossed it in the trash.
Because family does come first.
But sometimes, you have to be the one to decide who counts as family.