No good deed goes unpunished when you open your home to a friend in need

 thought I was doing a good thing by opening my door to a friend who had hit rock bottom. Instead, she treated my home like a hotel, and when I finally set boundaries, I became the villain of her story.

Rachel and I had been friends for over fifteen years, since middle school. My mom never approved of our friendship because Rachel came from what she called "a troubled home." Her parents were alcoholics who had already lost custody of Rachel's older siblings to the foster system. But somehow, Rachel slipped through the cracks and stayed with them through graduation.

Nobody else at school wanted to be her friend. She never had nice clothes, she looked unkempt, and she was too timid to stand up for herself when kids picked on her. I tried to protect her, but I couldn't always be there.

I felt sorry for her. Her parents only noticed she existed between benders, usually just to check her grades and smack her around when they didn't like what they saw. Everyone knew what was happening, but CPS never showed up.

After high school, I went to college while Rachel started working retail. We stayed in touch, but phone calls replaced the hours we used to spend together. Still, I considered her my best friend.

Then she got pregnant and married the father. Mom said he was "her type" — no education beyond high school, no ambition, parents just as messed up as hers. But they seemed happy at first, so I kept my opinions to myself.

Everything changed after the baby came. Her husband started drinking. Rachel made excuses for him.

"He's not always drunk. When he's sober, he's a great dad. He swears he's going to change."

I graduated, got a good job, and moved into my grandmother's condo. Meanwhile, Rachel's life was falling apart. Someone reported them, CPS investigated, and they took her daughter away. Rachel told me if they got their act together, they could get her back. If not, they'd lose parental rights completely.

Her husband didn't even try. He drank more and started hitting her. Rachel swore she wasn't drinking and was working hard to get her daughter back.

I told her to leave him. He was dragging her down. She could do so much better on her own — get a stable job, rent an apartment, regain custody.

"Where would I go? Back to my parents? I can't afford rent right now," she sobbed.

So I offered her my spare room. I told her she could stay with me until she got on her feet. After her husband gave her one more black eye, she finally agreed.

She showed up with nothing but a trash bag of clothes, half of which belonged in a dumpster. I told her she could borrow my clothes, use my makeup, eat whatever was in the fridge. She kept working at a grocery store until her husband showed up drunk, caused a scene, and got her fired.

"Don't worry," I said. "You'll find something better."

At first, she tried. She went to interviews, filled out applications. But nothing stuck. She kept saying she wanted a "real job," something stable enough to help her get an apartment and her daughter back.

I didn't push her. But then I noticed she'd stopped looking altogether. One day she felt sick. The next, she overslept. The day after, nobody called her back. But every night, she'd get dolled up and go out "to unwind."

"I never got to be young," she told me. "You're tired of parties, but I spent my youth working, dealing with my husband, taking care of a baby."

I bit my tongue for weeks. Then I reminded her why she was here — to divorce her husband, get a job, find an apartment, and get her kid back. Not to sleep all day and party all night. She seemed to snap out of it. The late nights stopped. She even told me she'd found a job.

Living with her was exhausting. She'd never learned to clean up after herself, and no matter how many times I asked, nothing changed. It was easier to just do it myself.

I thought once she started working, she'd move out in a couple of months. But weeks passed, and nothing changed. Turns out she never had a job. She was leaving in the morning, waiting for me to go to work, then coming back home. She'd leave again before I got back to keep up the lie.

And the worst part? She'd started bringing a guy over while I was gone.

My neighbor stopped me outside the building one evening, clearly uncomfortable. She said the "noises" coming from my apartment during the day were so loud that the whole floor could hear them. "You might want to talk to your friend. There are kids in this building."

I was furious. When I got home, the place was a mess — again. I had just cleaned the day before. I waited for Rachel, and when she walked in, I told her what my neighbor said. I demanded an explanation.

She shrugged. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"I invited you here so you could build a better life! It's been almost six months. You don't have a job. You haven't filed for divorce. You haven't even visited your daughter once!"

"Stay out of my life," she snapped. "Whether I divorce him or not is none of your business. And don't you dare bring up my kid."

I'd had enough. I gave her one week to find a job and move out. Then I went to stay at my parents' place because I couldn't stand to look at her.

She was gone by the next day. She packed up her stuff, emptied my fridge, and wrote what she thought of me in lipstick on my bathroom mirror.

Now she's back with her husband — the same guy she'd been sneaking into my apartment. He still drinks. She's working retail again. Her daughter is still in foster care. Nothing has changed.

And Rachel? She's telling everyone I tried to destroy her family.

I'm still in shock. I guess this is what I get for trying to help.