I let my nephew live with me for four years, and when I asked him to move out to build a new home, I received a response that left me speechless. I’m over 50, my children are settled, and now I just want to renovate the old house so my wife and I have a place to retire. But I never imagined that one day… my own nephew would betray me!

Four years ago, my nephew—my younger brother’s son—came to Delhi from Uttar Pradesh to study at university. His family was poor and he lived far away from home, so I felt sorry for him and said:

“Come and live with me. Staying for a few years will save money, and you can think of it as helping each other in a family.”

He was overjoyed and moved into a small room on the second floor of my house in Delhi. At the time, my wife and I didn’t think much of it, treating him like another child, taking care of his food, shelter, and daily needs.

Four years passed, he graduated, worked for more than half a year, and still hadn’t left home. I started talking to my wife:

“Now that we have some money, let’s demolish the old house and rebuild it. Call Tarun (T.) to rent a place to live temporarily.”

That night, I told him directly:

“T., now that I’m building the house, you can rent the house for me for a while. When the construction is complete, you can come back and visit me comfortably.”

Suddenly, he looked at me for a moment, then said coldly:

“You told me to leave, so I left. But for the past four years, I’ve been cooking, cleaning, mopping the floors, taking out the garbage… Do you think I worked for free? I roughly calculated that 12,000 rupees a month is enough. So give me 600,000 rupees (about 6 lakh rupees), and I’ll leave.”

I stood there stunned. My wife couldn’t believe it.

I growled:

“What are you saying? This is my house, I’m living here, eating and drinking for free. Now you want to pay me?”

He was still calm. “I didn’t ask for free housing. You let me stay, and I still contributed. I did the housework and cooked. Now you say building a house is okay, but I want to be clear.”

I was so angry that my face turned red and I waved with my hand:

“Get out of my house right now! Not a single penny!”

He actually left. But three days later, I received a job offer from the ward office in Delhi because… my nephew had sued me for “renting without a clear contract.”

My entire family in my hometown in Uttar Pradesh was in an uproar. Some were defending me, others were saying “live fairly.” But has anyone ever considered… if kindness is directed at the wrong person, it can also become a trap?

Part 2: The invitation from the ward office and the “clash” in Delhi
The morning I received the invitation, my wife held a tea tray with trembling hands. The entire WhatsApp group “Family News” (News from Home) erupted: some said Tarun was rude, others said “everything should be clear in India.” I remained silent. The smell of ginger and cinnamon masala tea was as pungent as my throat.

1) At the ward office: Tarun handed over “family case files.”

The ward office in Lajpat Nagar was swelteringly hot, the ceiling fan whirring. Ms. Sharma – the mediator – pushed her glasses up her nose:

“Today is just a conciliation session. No court sessions. Both parties leave their files, we take notes, and suggest solutions.”

Tarun entered with a boy in a white shirt and introduced himself as a fellow law student – ​​an “intern.” She placed a thick stack of papers on the table, on which sat a shiny plastic clipboard:

“Here’s my 48-month household work report. 1,236 hours of cooking, 912 hours of cleaning, 208 hours of garbage collection, and 173 hours of grocery shopping. Attached: UPI statements for monthly vegetable, rice, and cooking oil purchases.”

I laughed because it was absurd, but anger welled up in my throat:

“The boy is living in NHO. I consider my home my son. I paid for food, accommodation, electricity, water, internet, and even the fee for his stomach check-up last year!”

Tarun calmly pulled out another printed piece of paper with bullet points.
“I’m writing based on Section 70 of the Indian Contract Act: A person who works for another person without the intention of doing it for free, and the other person benefits, must compensate him. I’ve made it clear several times that I didn’t work for free. Here, here’s the voice note.”

My friend answered the phone. My voice echoed from somewhere, garbled: “Try to do your work properly, I’ll figure it out later.”

A vague sentence from two years ago.

Mrs. Sharma tapped her pen:
“What documents do you have?”

I held out a stack of bills: Tarun’s hospital fees, money to buy study books, a Rajdhani train ticket home for the TET, a laptop repair bill. Controlling my anger, I said softly:
“When do we, family members… sign a contract for house cleaning?”

Mrs. Sharma sighed:
“Yes—but now that the dispute has arisen, it’s better to settle. Advise your uncle to offer a stipend, say ₹100,000, to settle this matter. Tarun withdraws his request and withdraws the application.”

Tarun nodded:
“I want ₹600,000. I won’t take less.”

My wife tugged at my sleeve: “Okay, give him a little bit to end this.” I brushed it off. My pride flared up like a dry fire:
“Not even a penny!”

The mediation failed. Ms. Sharma wrote “no compromise” and set a seven-day deadline to submit evidence, after which she would proceed to the pre-litigation Lok Adalat (city-level mediation proceedings).

2) Online Storm and Neighbors’ Whispers
That afternoon, the entire neighborhood erupted in chaos. The doorman shook his head:
“Brother, that kid posted on Instagram. The post about ‘exploitation disguised as kindness’—showing domestic workers as helpless.”

I opened my phone: a blurry photo of my kitchen corner. Below were thousands of comments: “Pay for your help!”—”Uncle, you poisonous one.” My heart was pounding like a drum.

The contractor heard about the dispute and immediately called:
“I haven’t vacated the house yet, I don’t have the courage to demolish it. I’m embroiled in a lawsuit, the ward police are inquiring, we’re trapped.”

The demolition scheduled for next week had to be postponed indefinitely.

3) Family Meeting: Old Secrets Revealed
At night, Tauji (my father’s elder brother) called from Kanpur on a video call. The screen was shaking, his voice hoarse:
“You two have crossed the line! But let me remind you, in 2019, my younger brother lent me ₹200,000 for business and hasn’t repaid it yet. Don’t let the kid make excuses.”

My wife turned to me:
“You… still owe me?”

My voice choked:
“There’s still ₹80,000 left, I plan to repay it after the house is built.”

Tarun immediately seized the opportunity:
“Then I’ll deduct that from the amount. You’ll give me ₹520,000.”

I said loudly across the table:
“Don’t be vague! I owe you brothers, let me talk. As for you—get out of my house!”

He pursed his lips:
“I changed the lock on the second floor; my stuff is there. If you touch it, I’ll report it to the police.”

His words were as cold as ice.

4) New Clue: The “Trap” of Workers and Maid Shanta
That night, my wife was called by her former maid, Shanta, who whispered:

“Didi, don’t give him any money! Four years ago, Tarun himself told me to quit my job because he ‘takes care of the house,’ and he was taking ₹6,000 from me every month to ‘pay you back,’ but he didn’t. I have messages and recordings of him trying to negotiate.”

Shanta’s message, every line of Hindi, was clearly visible: “Didi, I’ll handle it, you don’t have to come.” I sank down onto my chair.

It turned out she had deliberately pushed the maid away, then recorded her actions so she could demand her payment later!

My wife burst into tears:
“This was decided from the beginning…”

5) New move: RWA withholds NOC, Tarun demands “shifting fee”
The next morning, the RWA (Residents Association) sent an email: Due to an “internal dispute,” they had temporarily stopped issuing NOCs (approval certificates) for the renovation project. Tarun sent another legal notice drafted by his “lawyer”:
“My client is willing to move within 30 days upon receiving ₹600,000 and ₹20,000 shifting charges. Otherwise, we will file a petition in the civil court for compensation and delayed interest under Section 70.”

I laughed, but beads of sweat were forming on my temples. The contractor had already deposited the money, and now they were stuck. I called Mrs. Sharma back to ask for more evidence.
“Just submit Shanta’s voice note, the hospital statement, the tuition fees, and Tarun’s living expenses for four years. We will compare the benefits for both parties,” she said.

6) Heavy Rain in Delhi Night: A Question That Kept Me Awake
That night, the monsoon rains were raging. I stood on the terrace, staring at the leaking roof, contemplating old age. My wife put a hand on my shoulder:
“Or should I give him a share to protect the family?”

I held back a sigh. Self-respect, anger, and fear of being disgraced swirled in my chest. Just then, the phone rang: another file arrived from Shanta’s email, clearly recording Tarun’s voice:
“You should quit your job. I can handle everything. I’ll settle the accounts with you later; it’ll save the family money.”

I turned on the light and sat down at the table. If Tarun had any intentions from the beginning, the Section 70 he was using could have backfired. Because the law also says that the intention to not do anything for free must be clearly stated, without any deception. And that’s the system.

I gathered enough evidence and closed the thick file. For the first time since the incident, I felt I had a chance to win.

End of Part 2:
The morning after submitting the file, Mrs. Sharma made an appointment for this Friday – the pre-litigation Lok Adalat would call Shanta as a witness. Tarun sent a cold message:
“Get everything out. I even have a recording.”

I stared at the phone screen, my heart pounding. Which recording? Were these the words I’d said to him years ago, or… something that would make me lose face in front of my relatives and neighbors?

The rain was still pouring on the tin roof. I closed the door, preparing for the final battle.