My Mom Harassed Me At My Job Until I’d Give My Home To My Sister. I Installed Hidden Cameras And Uncovered A Terrifying Plot To Make Me Homeless. How Far Should I Go To Protect Myself?
A Modest Life Under Siege
My mother claimed I was mentally unstable and I should let my sister move into my apartment so she could look after me one day while I was out. She threw my stuff out and changed all the locks. I never thought I’d be writing something like this, but I need to get this off my chest before I completely lose my mind.
I’m a 30-year-old zookeeper at the city’s main zoological park, and I’ve been living in the same apartment for the past 5 years. It’s nothing fancy, just a modest one-bedroom place, but it’s perfectly located only a 10-minute walk from the zoo’s employee entrance. After spending 12-hour shifts caring for everything from temperamental primates to massive elephants, that short commute is a godsend.
My mother is 54 and runs a small yoga studio in the suburbs. She’s always been the type who believes she knows what’s best for everyone, especially her children. Growing up, she had this way of making you feel like the worst person in the world if you didn’t immediately comply with her wishes. I thought I’d escape that when I moved out 8 years ago, but apparently, some patterns never change.
The Campaign Begins
My younger sister is 28 and works as a retail manager at a department store downtown. She currently lives with our mother in the suburbs, which means she has about an hour-long commute each way. Recently, she’s been complaining about the drive, the gas prices, and the wear on her car. All valid concerns, I suppose, but instead of looking for her own place like a normal adult, she’s enlisted our mother in a campaign to guilt me into giving up my apartment.
It started about 3 months ago with subtle hints. My mother would call after I’d finished a particularly grueling shift—you know, the kind where you’ve been knee-deep in rhino enclosure maintenance or dealing with a sick tiger—and she’d casually mention how tired my sister looked.
“She’s just exhausting herself with that commute,” she’d sigh. “It’s really taking a toll on her health.”
Then the comments escalated. “You know, your sister works with the public all day. She needs to look presentable, not exhausted from driving.” “You work with animals; they don’t care if you’re a bit tired.”
As if my job doesn’t require intense focus and physical stamina. As if one wrong move with a stressed elephant couldn’t result in serious injury or death.
