**Diary Entry 8th March**
“Wheres *my* present? Or am I not a woman anymore?”
“Honestly? Youre an uninvited guest. Let your daughter spoil *you* with gifts.”
My heart pounded, but for the first time, I said exactly what I thought of Auntie Joan. Pity it had to happen on such a lovely holiday.
Mum stood in the hallway clutching scarlet roses and a box of expensive perfumeproper, high-end stuff. Meanwhile, Joan loomed in the kitchen doorway, dark as a storm cloud and just as heavy.
“Joan…” Mum gave her sister a helpless look. “She *did* come to visit *me*, to see Gran…”
“And what am I? Chopped liver?” Joan squinted at me like I was the enemy.
“Chopped livers at least quiet and doesnt make demands,” I shot back.
“Charming! What a rude little madam youve raised, Natalie!” Joan huffed, brushing past with a withering glare. “Not staying for this circus.”
Mum nudged my foot with a warning glance. Shed always been the peacekeeper, endlessly patient with Joans nonsense.
Me? Dad and I had far less tolerance.
Joan had never been part of my lifenot really. And she was tighter than Scrooge from *A Christmas Carol*. Growing up, expecting a gift from her was like believing in Father Christmas past thirty.
Oh, she *did* bring things. Always the dregs: a tacky lip-shaped lamp at four, a chipped money toad with a missing foot at six. Mens socks, expired bath sets, a torn-open bedding set with wonky cartoon chicks… the list went on.
Once, she even dragged in a half-bald, filthy kittenclearly a stray. My parents wouldve kicked it out if I hadnt begged to keep it. Two days later, they “gave it to a friend.” Years on, Dad admitted the poor thing had been too ill to save. That one still stung.
Even my schoolmates knew about Joans stinginess. When we went trick-or-treating once, Joan vanished for ten minutes, then handed us a crumpled bag of ancient sweets.
“Ugh, these are vile,” one friend gagged outside. “Did your aunt *want* to poison us?”
They were coated in white dust, stale, with bitter coffee beans insideclearly festering in her cupboard for years.
I was mortified. Though why *should* I be?
It never improved. If Joan turned upand she always didshe arrived with Tupperware.
“Oh, pack me some of that pie, love,” shed say. “For Victor and Alice, since they couldnt come. And some meat, if theres spare. We havent had proper meat in *months*the prices are criminal!”
Mum happily obliged.
“Like it? Bring them next weekendI miss Alice!”
At restaurants, Joan shamelessly boxed leftovers, even asking other diners if theyd finished their meals.
Her monologues were predictable: prices, wages, taxes. So imagine our shock when she bragged about buying a *second* flatsomewhere pricier, with higher rent.
“Cost a packet to visit, but Ive mates there who keep an eye on it,” she said smugly.
Meanwhile, my parents had been saving for *years* just to fix the roof. Our “poor relation” was richer than us.
At fifteen, Joan finally leftto that very flat, following Alice to uni. Dad and I nearly cheered. But Mum moped.
“Still family…” shed sigh.
Seven years later, Joan was back. Empty-handed, of course, yet acting like we owed her a feast. Perfect timing, tooearly March, just before Mothers Day. She *always* appeared when gifts were due.
But I wasnt a naive kid anymore. I refused to humour hereven if it meant a row.
Dad smirked when she stormed off. *Atta girl,* his thumbs-up said. Mum sighed and called us to dinner.
Joan returned at the smell of roast turkey, looking as if *we* were inconveniencing *her*pouting, arms crossed.
Time to twist the knife. My birthday was coming, and I wasnt spending it listening to her moan about petrol prices.
“Mum, about my birthday…”
Joan perked up instantly. Where there was a party, there was free food.
“Oh! When is it?” she cooed.
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Really? Id *forgotten*! Well, well all celebrate together, eh? Proper do! Ill stay till then.”
Her voice dripped with greed. Probably already planning her Tupperware raid.
“Cant. Im having friends over this year. You dont mind, Mum?”
Joans smile froze. The light in her eyes died. Shed *lost*.
“Oh, love… forgetting your old mum,” Mum said sadly. “But pop round after, yes? Ill cook.”
“Actually… could you *help* me prep? Im swamped at workwed finish faster with four.”
Joans head swivelled between us. I bit back a grin.
“Of *course*, darling,” Mum said. “Though Dads bad back…”
Dad, suspicious, pulled me aside later.
“You *serious* about this party?”
“Nope. But they dont need to know,” I whispered, winking.
I expected Joan to fake an illness. Shed *never* work for free. But next morning, Dad rang:
“Youre a lifesaver.”
Joan had boltedjust before Mothers Day. Mum cried seeing her off, but even *she* admitted relief.
So it ended. Joan kept her miserly ways. I kept my self-respectand my familys support. Heres hoping her next visit is *years* away. And if not? Well, Ill find her some *work*…
