My brother Oliver got married six years ago. Since then, neither I nor our parents have ever stepped foot inside their home. Every birthday, holiday, family gathering—without fail—takes place at Mum and Dad’s spacious house on the outskirts of Manchester. Mum cooks mountains of food, lays out the table, then insists Oliver and his wife, Gemma, take home containers stuffed full of roast dinners and puddings.
When Oliver first married, Gemma’s birthday rolled around just months later. Mum, overflowing with enthusiasm, planned a surprise: we bought a cake, picked out a lovely gift, and readied ourselves to visit. Mum called Gemma to give her a heads-up, but she answered coldly, insisting she wasn’t celebrating. Mum, undeterred, pressed on:
*”Oh, we’ll just pop in! Tea and cake—you won’t have to lift a finger, love!”*
We went anyway. But instead of a warm welcome, we got a shock: Gemma met us outside, muttering that the flat *”wasn’t tidy,”* and refused to let us in. Stunned, we handed over the cake and present right there on the pavement before leaving. Ever since, Mum’s hosted all the gatherings, and we’ve tried to forget that awkward moment.
Gemma once said outright to my parents:
*”You’ve got a big house—plenty of room for guests! Ours is just a tiny flat—where would we fit everyone?”*
I bit my tongue hard. Was a one-bed flat really too small for her in-laws and sister-in-law? It wasn’t a crowd—just three people! But we stayed quiet, not wanting to stir trouble.
Now, Gemma’s five months pregnant—my parents’ first grandchild. Mum’s beside herself, ringing Oliver constantly to ask after Gemma, offering help. But we recently learned Gemma quit her job early in the pregnancy. Mum panicked:
*”Is she unwell? Does she need me?”*
Oliver reassured her: Gemma was simply *”taking it easy.”* We were baffled. Oliver and Gemma always lived large—fancy meals out, weekend trips, designer clothes. No mortgage either—the flat was inherited from Gemma’s gran—so their money went on indulgences. But now, with Gemma not working, their income’s halved, and their old lifestyle’s crumbling. Oliver tried explaining they needed to tighten the belt, but Gemma won’t give up her luxuries.
She admitted she quit over fear of *”catching something at work.”* Understandable, maybe—but now their finances are wrecked, and she still expects the same spending. And then, amid all this, Oliver suddenly invited us to his birthday—at their place! Dad nearly choked:
*”Will I finally taste my daughter-in-law’s cooking?”*
Mum was thrilled, picturing a cosy family evening. I rang Gemma to check details, but instead of a calm chat, I got hysterics. Sobbing, she snapped she didn’t want us there:
*”I’ll have to clean the flat, cook! I’m pregnant—it’s too much!”*
I tried soothing her:
*”Gemma, it doesn’t have to be fancy. Roast some potatoes, toss a salad, maybe a chicken. We’ll bring dessert. It’s just dinner for five—what’s the issue?”*
I even offered to order takeaway to spare her the effort. But she kept whining about vacuuming and scrubbing. Finally, I snapped:
*”Gemma, it’s one room! How hard is that? Do you only clean when guests come?”*
In the end, I gave an ultimatum:
*”If you’re this against it, we won’t come. We’ll just call Oliver with wishes.”*
Mum agreed when I told her. But when we explained things to Oliver, he blew up:
*”Gemma doesn’t work—she sits at home! Can’t she cook one meal and hoover? You’re coming! We can’t afford a cleaner or takeout, so she’ll manage!”*
His words hung like storm clouds. We all ended up shouting. Now, none of us want to go. Watching Gemma sulk, roll her eyes, and sigh all evening sounds like pure misery. The thought of feeling unwelcome in my own brother’s home turns my stomach.
But then—how can we not go? Oliver’s so excited, desperate to host us. It’s his day—he’s not the one being difficult. Do we swallow our pride and risk a miserable night, or stay away and break his heart? There’s no right answer, only the ticking clock, pushing us toward a decision we don’t want to make. How do you choose between love for your brother and resentment for his wife? The birthday looms, and we’re trapped in this mess, deeper with every step.
