“Can you pack some food for us to take home?” — A visit I’ll never forget
Sometimes life throws you moments that leave you wondering—was that a joke or reality? A recent visit from my husband’s colleague’s family was one of those moments, and now, whenever I think about it, I feel a shiver down my spine and a firm resolve to never again invite “nice-but-hardly-known people” into my home.
My husband and I live in Manchester. I’m a bit of a homebody, and we’ve got a cosy little flat—small but full of warmth. We have one daughter, Emily, and that’s more than enough to keep every day lively. My husband is sociable, works in a project team, and often shares work stories—who said what, who played a prank, who covered for whom. One name that came up often was Andrew—a cheerful, active bloke who seemed reliable. Always ready to help, cover a shift, or step in for a colleague. Naturally, my husband thought well of him. So when he mentioned one day that Andrew and his family wanted to pop round, I didn’t object—though I was surprised, since we’d never been particularly close before.
Then, one evening, they showed up on our doorstep—Andrew, his wife Olivia, and their youngest. Their daughter was around Emily’s age, so I was pleased the girls could play together. At first, everything seemed fine. Olivia struck me as sweet, smiling, pleasant… until she started talking. And all she talked about was one thing: kids, kids, kids. They have three, and according to her, the whole world owed them for it—the government should pay more, employers should grant leave on demand, and grandparents should babysit from dawn till dusk.
I nodded along, but inside, I was seething. I wanted to blurt out, “Did you not think about the responsibilities before having three?” We have one child, and we’re well aware of the cost—financially, emotionally, physically. That’s why we’ve stopped there. But they’ve got three, and everyone’s at fault except them—the economy, the council, the grandparents, the school… Never the ones who decided to keep expanding their family.
I kept quiet. I don’t like confrontations in my own home. Besides, the kids were playing nicely, and my husband seemed happy he’d set this up. As a good host, I’d prepared—roast chicken, a couple of salads, a hot dish, even a homemade pie. I laid out the table, greeted them with a smile. Though I listened more than I ate. The guests didn’t dig in much either, and I thought—maybe they’re shy?
How wrong I was.
As dinner wound down and I mentally rejoiced at the leftovers—no cooking tomorrow—Olivia calmly sipped her squash and said:
“Can you pack some for us to take home? The chicken and salads… We didn’t eat much on purpose—wanted to bring it back. Don’t fancy cooking at the weekend.”
Silence hung for a second. I froze. I couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud. No hesitation. No lead-up. No joke. She genuinely expected to leave our house with takeaway boxes!
I’ve never packed food for anyone to take home—it’s just not the done thing here. You bring food *for* guests, not *from* them. And for a guest to outright ask for a doggy bag? With the confidence of someone who thinks it’s completely normal?
I glanced at my husband. He looked down, sensing the awkwardness. I forced a smile and managed,
“Pack some? Uh… I don’t have containers, just carrier bags…”
Olivia nodded eagerly. Andrew stayed diplomatically quiet. I shoved the leftovers into two bags, handed them over, and the whole time, one thought rang in my head: *Never again.*
When they left, my husband said,
“Guess she’s just used to it… Three kids, not much time…”
I just scoffed.
“Listen, I don’t care what people are used to. I’ll never get used to guests like that.”
Since that evening, my door stays shut to anyone who turns up empty-handed but full of expectations—especially those who treat my kitchen like a free buffet.
