Am I right for having evicted my sister and nieces? This is the question I keep asking myself. My sister, Sarah, lost her apartment after a messy divorce, so I did what I thought was right by inviting her and her sixteen-year-old twin daughters to live with my wife and me. We had enough space, and I felt it was my responsibility to help family in need. At first, it felt good to have them around. The girls seemed polite, and Sarah was grateful, always thanking me for my hospitality.

For about three weeks, everything ran smoothly. The twins, Maddy and Megan, settled into the guest room. My wife, Alice, even helped them decorate it with bright posters and cute bedding. She bought the girls some clothes for school and listened patiently when they needed someone to talk to. Sarah mostly kept to herself. She tried to find a new job and was on the phone a lot, probably talking to lawyers about her divorce. Even though we didn’t see her much, we understood she was dealing with a lot of stress.

During this time, I was working longer shifts to make sure we had enough money to cover everyone’s expenses. With extra mouths to feed, our grocery bills had shot up, and our utility costs were growing. But I figured it was a short-term problem until Sarah got back on her feet. Alice didn’t complain either—she’s always had a big heart and believed in family helping family.

However, I started noticing little signs that something was off. My wife’s favorite coffee mug went missing one day, only to reappear in the twins’ room, dirty and filled with half-eaten cookies. Another time, Alice told me she found Megan scrolling through her phone in our bedroom, claiming she was just looking for a charger. Small things, but they made me uncomfortable. Still, I brushed them aside, reminding myself they were teenage girls who had just gone through a lot of upheaval.

Then, everything changed yesterday. I got home from work, dead tired, hoping to have dinner and relax. Instead, I found Alice locked in our bedroom, crying. When I finally got her to open the door, I saw her eyes were red and puffy. She had a look of deep hurt on her face, the kind that made my stomach drop. I asked her what happened, and at first, she could barely speak. But after a few moments, she took a shaky breath and began to explain.

She said that while she was out running errands, Maddy and Megan had decided to go through her jewelry box. They broke the small lock she had on it—more for sentimental reasons than security—and took out a gold locket that Alice’s grandmother had given her years ago. It was a family heirloom, something that meant the world to her. They also rummaged through some other items, scattering earrings and bracelets across the dresser like they were searching for something else valuable.

When Alice came home, she caught them red-handed, each twin holding pieces of her jewelry. Instead of apologizing, the girls just laughed and tried to play it off as a joke. They claimed they only wanted to “borrow” some accessories because they were bored with their own. Alice felt violated. That locket was more than just a piece of gold; it held a small photo of her late grandmother inside. She told me the girls acted like she was the one overreacting, and they rolled their eyes when she demanded they give everything back.

At this point, my blood was boiling. I could not believe my nieces, who seemed so respectful at first, would do something so cruel and careless. I walked straight into the living room, where I found them talking to each other in hushed tones. My sister, Sarah, was nowhere to be found, probably upstairs scrolling through her phone or resting.

I asked the twins for an explanation. They shrugged, said it was not a big deal, and that they hadn’t broken anything important. My anger grew, and my voice rose. I told them that I had expected better from them, especially since Alice and I had been nothing but kind. Their response? Maddy said, “If you’re so uptight about your stuff, maybe you should lock it away.” Megan added, “Yeah, it’s just old jewelry.”

That was the final straw. I went to find Sarah and told her what her daughters had done. She looked irritated, like I was bothering her with some small problem. She glanced at her phone, sighed, and said, “Teenagers can be moody. I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm.” She didn’t even offer to make them apologize or try to fix the situation. To me, this showed she wasn’t willing to accept how serious this was.

Feeling my emotions rise to a boiling point, I told Sarah that she and her daughters had to leave. I said I was done providing a home for people who disrespected my wife’s precious belongings and showed no remorse. Sarah looked stunned, then furious. She told me I was heartless, that it was cruel to kick out family over something so small. But to me, it wasn’t small at all—this was about respect, gratitude, and decency.

The next hour was tense. Sarah packed her things, angrily muttering about how she had no place to go. The twins stomped around, slamming doors and calling me names under their breath. Alice stayed in our bedroom, sobbing softly. I felt torn between guilt and rage. Part of me wanted to let them stay if they apologized and promised to change, but they didn’t seem the least bit sorry. So I held my ground.

They left in Sarah’s car, suitcases crammed in the trunk. As the car pulled out of our driveway, I felt my chest tighten. I kept telling myself I did the right thing, protecting my wife from more hurt. But I still felt a sting of doubt. Had I overreacted in the heat of the moment? Was it wrong to throw out my own sister and nieces without giving them one more chance?

Alice came downstairs after they left, tears still in her eyes, and thanked me for standing up for her. She hugged me, but the sadness in her voice was clear. That night, I could barely sleep. I kept thinking of all the times Sarah and I played together as kids. I remembered how we relied on each other when times were tough. But then I also remembered the disrespect toward Alice’s family heirloom and how the twins had laughed it off.

Sometimes, standing up for someone we love means making choices that feel harsh. Now our house is quiet again, but the peace is mixed with regret. I have not heard from Sarah since they drove away. I wonder if she will ever forgive me. I also wonder if I will ever forgive myself—or if I even should.

So I have to ask: do you think I was right to evict my sister and nieces, or should I have tried to handle it differently?