My sister kicked me out while I was pregnant, and my parents took her side, so I stopped paying their mortgage

My sister kicked me out while I was pregnant, and my parents took her side, so I stopped paying their mortgage

Part 1

My sister kicked me out while I was pregnant, and my parents took her side, so I stopped paying their mortgage. Hey there, I’m a 33-year-old woman raising my lovely 5-year-old daughter on my own. Life hasn’t been the easiest, especially since things with her dad didn’t go well while I was pregnant and even after our daughter was born. He wasn’t faithful to me. It hurt a lot, but after she came into the world, I knew I had to take control, so I ended the relationship and kicked him out. That’s a story for another day, though. Right now, let me tell you about what’s been happening with my family, specifically my sister.

After the breakup, I moved back in with my parents. Let’s face it: being a single mom is hard, and having family around to help can make a world of difference. For a while, things were manageable. I was working, and my parents helped out here and there, although not as much as they had promised. But everything changed just a couple of days ago when I came home to find my younger sister, Ava, sitting in the living room. Ava is 29, and the first thing I noticed was her huge pregnant belly. She had moved to Croatia with her husband right after they got married, and I hadn’t seen her since. You’d think I’d be happy to see her, but that’s complicated. Eva and I have never really gotten along. She’s always acted like she’s better than me, and she’s made it her mission to turn our parents against me whenever she can. And being the younger sibling, she’s always played the innocent card, getting away with pretty much anything.

Ava isn’t just mean with her words; she’s physically intimidating too. She’s bigger and stronger than me, and there were times growing up when I genuinely felt threatened by her. But my parents, they were blind to it all. Every time I tried to tell them that Ava was bullying me or even getting physical, they brushed it off, saying, “She’s your little sister. How could she possibly hurt you?” That’s how it’s always been. I learned to keep my distance from Ava when I moved out for high school. It felt like escaping a prison. But now she’s back, and not just for a visit. She’s back for good. 

When I saw her sitting there, I was taken aback. I hoped she was just back to have her baby and then leave again. I cautiously asked my mom how long Ava was planning to stay. Before my mom could even answer, Ava yelled from the living room, “I’m here to stay. Do you have a problem with that?” Her tone was sharp, and it was immediately clear that she hadn’t changed one bit. Still the same self-centered, narcissistic person she’s always been. My mom told me Ava’s husband had gotten a transfer back to the States, and though he had company accommodation, they thought it was best for Ava to stay with our parents during her pregnancy and after the baby was born. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. When I had my daughter, I didn’t get half the support Eva was getting. I asked my mom if she really had the time to take care of Eva’s child, and she replied meekly, “Well, she’s still so young. How could she raise a child on her own?” Ava is 29. She’s not young. I was 27 when I had my daughter, and I handled most of the postpartum on my own because my husband wasn’t around. My mom didn’t come to help me then, telling me it was just something I needed to learn as part of motherhood. But here she was, bending over backward to help Eva, cooking for her, bringing her supplements, and making her as comfortable as possible. I was furious but kept my cool. The favoritism was always obvious, but this took it to another level. For years, I kept my distance from Eva because of it, and now here I was, living in the same house as her again. But this time, it wasn’t just me I had to think about; it was my daughter. 

When I separated from my husband, I rented my own place at first, but my dad insisted I move in with them. He said their house was too big for just the two of them and that they could help with my daughter when I was at work. It seemed like a fair deal. Instead of paying rent for my own place, I could pay rent to my parents and save a bit of money. Plus, I was going through a lot emotionally at the time: pregnancy, postpartum, my husband’s infidelity. So I accepted their offer. At first, it was fine. I paid rent, and my mom agreed to babysit my daughter occasionally, though not as often as she had promised. Most of the time, I had to hire a full-time nanny because my mom said she couldn’t babysit full-time. So instead, she played the role of a baby monitor, making sure the nanny was doing her job properly. It wasn’t ideal, but I was grateful to have her around to keep an eye on things. But now, seeing how she was catering to Ava, doing everything for her while I had to hire help and take care of everything on my own during my pregnancy, it was too much to handle. My mom had barely visited me when I was pregnant, but for Ava, she was practically her personal nurse. 

I knew something was up. My parents had agreed to let Ava move in permanently, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were plotting something. Our house wasn’t that big to accommodate everyone comfortably. I knew I couldn’t just move out on a whim. I was paying rent, and I relied on my parents to help keep an eye on my daughter, even though they weren’t the best at it. I wasn’t ready to leave her with a nanny all the time, especially without the safety net of having family nearby. 

Then, my worst fears came true. A few days after Ava moved in, I came home from work, tired but ready to spend some time with my daughter. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, something felt off. My heart sank when I saw my stuff—suitcases, boxes, and bags—sitting on the front porch. And there, sitting on the steps next to the pile, was my daughter. She was hugging her knees, looking small and scared, waiting for me. I rushed over, trying to keep my voice steady. “What’s going on, sweetie?” I held her tightly, feeling my heart sink and my stomach churn with anger and disbelief. My daughter was terrified, and I had to stay strong for both of us, even though everything inside me was falling apart. I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts as I stroked her hair and helped her stand. With blood boiling, I grabbed our belongings and marched into the house, determined to find out what was going on. 

As soon as I opened the door, there she was: Ava, sprawled out on the couch, a smug grin on her face, eating like nothing had happened. My mother was in the kitchen, pretending she hadn’t noticed anything, and my father sat in his armchair, glued to the TV, as if my daughter and I didn’t exist. “What is this?” 

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