I Paid My Parents’ Mortgage for 8 Years — Am I Wrong for What I Did When My Sister Convinced Them to Leave Her the House?
I made mortgage payments to my parents for eight years with the explicit understanding that I would receive a bigger portion upon the sale of the house. However, everything changed when my sister returned home and persuaded them to leave the house to her. I was so angry at the treachery that I took a risk that completely upended the family.
For eight years, I had been the silent backbone of our family, quietly covering my parents’ mortgage and property taxes after they retired.
They had sacrificed everything for me and my sister, Susan—draining their retirement savings to put us through college. Now, with a thriving career thanks to that education, supporting them felt like the least I could do. But this wasn’t a handout; we had an agreement.
The deal was simple: I would invest in the house now, and when it sold, I’d receive a larger share to reflect my contributions. Fair. Logical. Uncomplicated.
Then Susan came back home—jobless.
At first, I felt nothing but sympathy. She was family, after all, and everyone needs a refuge now and then. I even helped her turn her old bedroom—now Dad’s hobby room—back into a living space.
As she wheeled a Louis Vuitton suitcase across Mom’s freshly swept floors, she reassured us with a breezy, “It’s just temporary. The tech industry is so volatile right now, but I’ve got some really promising leads.”
I nodded, folding her designer clothes into the wardrobe. “We’ll figure it out. That’s what family does.”
But it wasn’t long before familiar patterns resurfaced.
Susan had never been good with money. She lived paycheck to paycheck, spending everything to maintain a lifestyle she couldn’t afford. And now, I watched history repeat itself.
She picked up occasional freelance gigs, only to blow every dollar on takeout and high-end fashion.
“Why don’t you buy groceries and cook?” I asked one day. “Your money would go a lot further.”
Susan just laughed. “Sis, Mom does that! You know I can’t cook.”
And just like that, the weight of responsibility shifted—again.
Every Sunday when I showed up for lunch, Susan always had something new to flaunt—a fresh outfit, a perfect manicure, or a new haircut. Her dismissive words would follow, “Don’t worry so much, Em. Something always works out.”
I couldn’t help but challenge her, “That’s not how life works,” I said one evening, watching her pull yet another shopping bag from the pile. “You can’t keep spending like you still have your tech salary.”
She held up a silk blouse, its price tag still attached. “For interviews, I have to maintain a professional appearance. Plus, it was on sale.”
I raised an eyebrow, pointing to a takeout container on her dresser. “Was the daily sushi delivery on sale too?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “It was for Instagram. As a glamorous tech princess, I’ve been working on my personal brand. It’s great for networking and getting my name out there.”
“Oh? So, you’ve been getting job offers through Instagram?” I asked, incredulous.
“That’s not how it works,” she said, looking at me as though I were the dumbest person on earth. “It’s more like an online portfolio showcasing my expertise.”
I didn’t believe a word of it. But my parents? They ate it up like it was freshly baked bread—still warm from the oven.
Then came family supper, the tipping point. Susan went all out, making a big show of ordering takeaway from an upscale Italian restaurant for all of us.
My first hint that something wasn’t right should’ve been the sight of Mom’s fine china on the table.
“We’ve got big news for you, Carla,” Susan said, twirling spaghetti around her fork like she was on a cooking show. “I’ve been talking with Mom, Dad, and myself. We have so many memories tied to this place. It’s the perfect spot for raising a family. We’ve decided…” She gestured to our parents and then to herself, “… that I should stay here permanently, to keep the place in the family.”
Across the table, Mom and Dad smiled at her like she had just dropped the most brilliant idea. My stomach sank.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” I asked, knowing full well what was coming.
Susan leaned back with a smug smile, “Well, you’re already handling the mortgage and property taxes. This way, the house stays in the family indefinitely. It’s a win-win.”
The clink of my fork hitting the exquisite porcelain was louder than usual in the heavy silence. I set it down with deliberate care. “We didn’t agree on that. You remember our arrangement, don’t you, Mom and Dad? My investment in this place.”
Mom fiddled nervously with her napkin, avoiding eye contact. “Sweetheart, we didn’t think there’d be an issue. Susan is family. She calls this place home too.”
“And if it helps, I’ll absolutely pay you back for everything you’ve contributed over the years,” Susan chimed in quickly, “once I’m back on my feet.”
I nearly laughed at her words. This was the same sister who had racked up $10,000 in credit card debt during a “self-care journey” that mostly involved spa visits and crystal healing workshops.
The same sister who, after blowing all of her stock on herself, abandoned her “business venture” of selling essential oils three months after borrowing money from our parents.
“No,” I said firmly, my voice steady. “That’s not going to work.”
Susan snapped, “Stop being so self-centered! It’s within your means. Some of us are struggling right now.”
I didn’t hold back. “Then some of us should try harder to find a job instead of posting sushi reviews and fashion unboxings on Instagram.”
“That builds my image!” she retorted with a scowl. “You don’t understand what it’s like to be a woman in technology. I have to promote myself in a very specific way.”
At that moment, my parents stepped in, urging me to be more understanding of Susan’s situation. I stayed quiet, unwilling to escalate things into a full-blown argument at the dinner table.
But in my mind, the decision was already made. The next day, I stopped making mortgage payments. When the bill came at the end of the month, my parents panicked and called me.
They were stunned when they found out what I had done.
“You can’t do this!” Dad begged, his voice thick with disbelief, while Susan screamed in the background.
“I’m doing this because I have to, Dad,” I said firmly. “Despite our prior agreement, Susan manipulated you both into giving her the house. And you let her. I’m all for supporting family, but I won’t be taken advantage of.”
From across the house, Susan shouted, “Ignore her. She’s bluffing. Carla always changes her mind.” But I didn’t.
The reaction when the foreclosure notice came three months later? You would’ve thought I’d set the house on fire myself.
That’s when I realized my chance.
I walked straight into the bank, where their sole concern was recovering their losses. They were more than happy to sell the house to me at a reduced price. Legally and unquestionably, it was now mine.
The family gathering that followed was nothing short of explosive. I brought everyone into the living room—the place where we had spent decades celebrating birthdays and Christmases.
Susan’s face turned red as she screamed, “You can’t do this! This is our family home!”
I met her gaze slowly, letting the silence hang between us. “Yes. And it’s mine now.”
I paused, my voice steady but firm. “You all said it would be better if it stayed in the family. But you didn’t get it from me. I just stopped letting you use me.”
Turning to my parents, I added, “I’ll give you six months to find a smaller place. I’ll even help you move, but this situation is no longer sustainable.”
Then, I turned to Susan. “You have two choices: move out, or pay market-rate rent.”
I knew Susan assumed that Mom and Dad would pressure me into backing down, so she opted for her usual third option—the one where she tried to talk her way out of anything.
But this time, an unexpected twist occurred.
I had been watching their younger daughter’s sense of entitlement grow, but it wasn’t until Mom and Dad witnessed Susan’s tantrum that they finally saw it too.
The months that followed were suffocatingly tense. Susan bounced between guilt-tripping me, trying to manipulate me into reversing my decision, and ignoring me completely. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad found a charming two-bedroom condo.
It was small, but it was theirs. I could see the weight lifting off their shoulders as they became debt-free, and that sense of relief was palpable.
Then came Susan’s grand finale. She lost it all—standing in the hallway, surrounded by her belongings.
With a face twisted in anger, she screamed, “You’re heartless!” She paused, trying to steady herself, before adding, “This was what I needed! I was going to raise a family here!”
I gazed at my sister, feeling a strange mix of resolution and sympathy. “Susan, no. You needed to take accountability for your own life.”
She stood there, her frustration palpable, but it was clear that there was no other option for her. What else could she do?
The last I heard, she was gearing up to launch a lifestyle blog and had moved in with a friend.
I found a reliable tenant and converted the basement into a separate apartment. The rental income more than covered the mortgage, turning what had started as a painful betrayal of family into one of the best financial decisions I’d ever made.
