My name is Emily, and I live in London with my husband James. Our story began twelve years ago when I moved to the capital to study at university. After graduating, I found a job, and soon fate brought me together with James. We dated for about a year before getting married.
The first years of our marriage were spent at his parents’ house, scrimping and saving every penny to afford our own place. Finally, we managed to buy a cosy two-bedroom flat—though with a mortgage that would take years to pay off. Still, it was ours. Our little haven.
You’d think the dream had come true—time to relax and enjoy it. But with the new flat came an avalanche of unexpected guests. Relatives—who else?—started arriving in London one after another, insisting they’d come to “visit us” and “see the city.” Of course, none of them wanted to pay for a hotel—why would they? We had a “two-bedder,” so surely there was room for everyone…
This summer, after years without a proper holiday, James and I finally managed to book time off together. We’d dreamed of the seaside for ages. Tickets were bought for the 15th of June, and I threw myself into packing—suitcases, tickets, plans.
Then, on the 10th, my cousin Charlotte called. Cheerful as ever.
“Em, we’ve decided—we’re coming to see you on the 20th! Me, my husband, and our boy! You’ll let us in, won’t you?”
For a second, I was stunned before calmly replying,
“Charlie, James and I are going away. We won’t be here.”
Her answer, to put it mildly, was unexpected.
“The *seaside*? Don’t be ridiculous—just cancel it! We haven’t seen each other in nearly a year! Family comes first!”
I sighed and stood firm.
“No. We’re going on holiday as planned. Tickets are bought, bags are packed. Even for you, Charlie, I’m not cancelling this.”
The line went dead. I shrugged and went back to packing. We left on the 15th, just as we’d intended. Sun, sand, bliss.
Then, on the evening of the 20th, my phone rang. Charlotte’s number. Out of habit, I answered—only to be met with shrieking.
“Emily! Where on earth *are* you? We’re standing outside your flat, ringing the bell, and there’s no one here! This is outrageous!”
I kept my voice steady.
“We’re at the seaside, Charlie. I *did* warn you.”
“I thought you were joking! Just to put us off!”
“No, I was serious.”
“What are we supposed to do *now*?”
“Book a hotel. Or go home.”
“We can’t *afford* a hotel!”
“Then figure it out. You’re adults. I did my part—I told you in advance.”
The call ended abruptly—Charlotte hung up again. She hasn’t rung since.
Later, I found out she’d spun the tale to every relative—how “cruel” and “heartless” I was, abandoning family with nowhere to stay. Worst of all, most of them took her side. They think *I* did wrong, that I should have “made it work” for the sake of guests.
But here’s my stance—what did I do wrong? Was it wanting a holiday with my husband after years of hard work? Was it *warning* her well ahead of time?
Charlotte had all the facts, time to adjust, every chance to change plans. If she couldn’t afford a hotel—that was *her* problem, not mine.
And you know what this whole mess taught me? Sometimes even family won’t respect your boundaries. They expect you to sacrifice everything for their convenience. And if you don’t—you’re the villain.
Well, I won’t apologise for choosing myself. Not anymore.
So tell me—was I in the wrong?
