'I moved in with my sister after a bad break up. Within days, our relationship unravelled.'

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As told to Ann DeGrey.

When I moved to the Gold Coast, I was looking to make a fresh start.

My relationship back home had ended in a messy, drawn-out breakup, and I was emotionally and financially drained. My sister Crissy* and I had always been great mates, so when she offered me her spare room while I got back on my feet, I felt lucky. I thought, Thank God I've got family I can count on.

Watch: What it's like to rent right now. Post continues after video.

But it wasn't such a great experience, at all.

At first, it was pretty good. Crissy lives in a stunning modern townhouse not far from the beach and close to shops. She works in PR and makes good money.

She's two years younger than me but certainly has her life together in a more mature way than me. We got off to a good start. She told me she was excited about having me stay and couldn't wait to show me around and meet her friends.

Then came the 'rules'.

On the first night, she handed me a printed "house guide." I thought it was a joke, but it was deadly serious.

No showers after 9:00pm (the noise apparently wakes up her boyfriend).

No cooking onions, garlic, or anything "smelly."

Wi-Fi is for essential use only and streaming is counted as non-essential.

Shoes off at the door, and slippers or socks to be worn indoors (she had spares, in case mine weren't up to standard).

No sitting on the couch in "outside clothes."

Showers no longer than three minutes.

To top it off, her boyfriend, Jake*, who was "only staying a couple of nights a week," basically lived there. He was quiet and polite enough, but he had OCD tendencies and would re-wipe the kitchen counters after I used them, even if I'd just cleaned them.

He once moved my moisturiser and eye cream into a zip-lock bag because it looked "too cluttered" on the bathroom shelf.

Still, I reminded myself this was temporary. I just needed a bit of breathing room until I found full-time work and a place of my own. I was applying for jobs daily, doing freelance gigs here and there, and pulling my weight around the house.

Then Crissy sent me a spreadsheet which landed in my inbox one Friday afternoon with the subject line: "March Contributions."

At first, I thought it was a mistake. But when I opened it, I saw a fully itemised list of expenses, including my share of the rent, my share of gas and electricity, shared groceries, including oat milk which I don't even drink.

Also, things like cultured butter and gluten-free bread. She also charged me for Wi-Fi (charged for data use) and told me next week was my turn to buy toilet paper.

I couldn't believe it. She'd never mentioned rent when I moved in, let alone that I'd be billed for butter. I called her and asked if we could talk about it.

She was totally unfazed and said it was only fair that we "split costs evenly," and that her time managing the house was stressful.

I reminded her that she'd invited me to stay and that I was trying to get back on my feet. She said that was "fine", but she needed me to contribute as much as I could.

Of course, I was happy to pay for toilet paper and I already bought my own food and didn't touch hers. I didn't even try to argue about the oat milk. I just decided to avoid conflict, so I packed a bag, booked a cheap Airbnb for a few nights, and left the next morning.

I ended up paying her more than I should have, but having just been through a sh*tty breakup where we had major arguments over finances, I didn't want to go through the same stuff with my sister.

So I just paid her, not because I agreed, but because I didn't want this dragging on.

Since then, there's been a few awkward texts here and there, mostly about family events. She tells people that she invited me to stay but that I didn't like her rules.

Well, that's an understatement.

Her rules were ridiculous and only her boyfriend, who seemed like a male version of her, would agree to follow them. I'm now in a shared place with two strangers who are somehow more chill than my own sister.

So, I still love Crissy. She's my sister, and I know she thought she was being fair. Maybe she genuinely believes that spreadsheets and "house manuals" are just part of being grown up.

But when you invite someone into your home during one of the lowest points of their life, maybe being kind matters more than keeping track of who ate the last avocado.

At the very least, I now know to always ask: is this a favour, or a rental agreement in disguise?

*Names have been changed for privacy.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

Feature image: Canva. (Stock image for illustrative purposes).