Long ago, in the city of London, I, Eleanor Whitmore, lived with my husband, Edward. Our tale began twelve years past when I first arrived in the capital to study at university. After graduating, I found work, and fate soon brought Edward into my life. We courted for a year before exchanging vows in marriage.
Our early years were spent under his parents’ roof, saving every penny to buy a home of our own. At last, we secured a modest two-bedroom flat, though burdened by a mortgage we’d repay for years to come. Still, it was ours—a small fortress in the bustling city.
One might think the dream was realised—live and be content. Yet with the keys came an unexpected flood of guests. Kinfolk, as one might expect, arrived one after another to “pay a visit” and “see the sights.” But none fancied lodging at an inn, for surely our “two rooms” could accommodate them all…
That summer, after years without proper respite, Edward and I finally arranged leave from work at the same time. We’d long dreamed of the seaside. Tickets were bought for the 15th of June, and I threw myself into packing—suitcases, itineraries, preparations.
Then, on the 10th of June, my cousin Margaret rang, cheerful as ever:
“Ellie, we’ve decided—we’re coming to see you on the 20th! Me, my husband, and our boy! You’ll open the door for us, won’t you?”
I paused, then replied evenly, “Margaret, Edward and I are away to the coast. We shan’t be home.”
Her answer, to put it mildly, was a shock:
“What do you mean, the coast? Return those tickets! We haven’t seen each other in nearly a year! Family comes first!”
I sighed and stood firm. “No. We’re leaving as planned. The tickets are bought, the bags packed. Not even for you, Margaret, shall I cancel this holiday.”
She slammed down the receiver. Shrugging, I returned to my preparations. We departed on the 15th, as intended—sun, sand, and bliss.
Then, on the evening of the 20th, the telephone rang. Margaret’s number. I answered without thought—only to be met with shrieks:
“Eleanor! Where on earth are you? We’re at your door, knocking, and no one’s home! This is outrageous!”
Calmly, I replied, “We’re at the seaside, Margaret. I did warn you.”
“I thought you were joking! Just to put us off!”
“No, I was quite serious.”
“And what are we to do now?”
“Book an inn. Or return home.”
“We haven’t the coin for an inn!”
“Then that’s your affair. You’re grown folk. I did my part—I gave fair warning.”
With that, the call ended—Margaret hung up once more. She never rang again.
Later, I learned she’d spread a “dreadful tale” among the family: how cruel and ungrateful I was, leaving blood kin without shelter. Worst of all, most took her side. They claimed I’d acted poorly, that I ought to have “found a way” for my guests.
Yet I hold my ground—where was my fault? In wishing, after years of toil, to holiday with my husband by the sea? In giving notice well ahead?
Margaret had all—the knowledge, time to adjust, chance to alter her plans. As for the cost of lodging, that was her own concern, not my duty.
And what did I learn from this affair? That even kin may disregard your bounds. They expect you always to sacrifice for their comfort. Refuse, and you’re branded a “traitor.”
No, I’ll not apologise for choosing myself. Not before anyone.
Now, tell me—do you think I was wrong?
