I already regretted a hundred times that I’d brought my new boyfriend, Oliver, to my mum’s Easter gathering. On paper, a family holiday should’ve been lovely—hot cross buns, dyed eggs, loved ones around the table. But the moment I saw how many people had crammed into Mum’s house, I wanted to turn on my heel and bolt. All three of my sisters—Beatrice, Harriet, and Victoria—had arrived with their husbands and kids. Plus Mum’s brother, Uncle George, with his wife and two grown sons. And a handful of distant relatives whose names I barely remembered. At the center of this family hurricane? Me and Oliver, my new boyfriend, whom I’d foolishly decided to introduce. I should’ve known better.
The moment we stepped inside, the interrogation began. Mum pounced before we’d even taken our coats off: “Oliver, what do you do for a living? How old are you? What are your intentions?” Oliver held his ground, answering calmly with a smile, but I could see the tension in his jaw. My sisters, as if conspiring, turned it into a full-blown test. Beatrice, the eldest, bragged about her husband’s recent promotion and their brand-new Range Rover. Harriet boasted that her daughter was already taking ballet lessons and performing on stage. Victoria, the youngest, just stirred the pot, whispering coyly, “Wherever did you find such a young one, sis?” Oliver was five years younger than me, and it seemed to be the scandal of the evening.
Mum—Elizabeth, that is—decided her mission was to fatten Oliver up. She kept piling hot cross buns onto his plate, insisting, “Eat, love, you’re too thin!” Oliver thanked her politely, but I could tell he was drowning in her generosity. Then Mum launched into childhood stories: “Oliver, our girl here used to dream of marrying a pilot! You’re not a pilot, but you’ll do nicely—don’t let her down!” The table erupted in laughter, and I wished the floor would swallow me whole. Oliver just smiled, but I knew he was mortified.
Uncle George, Mum’s brother, took it upon himself to test Oliver’s mettle. He poured him a glass of homemade elderflower wine and toasted, “To the young ones! But lad, you do realise our women are made of stern stuff, eh?” Oliver nodded and drank, but I felt his fingers tighten around mine under the table. When Uncle George suggested they step outside to “see how he chops firewood,” I’d had enough. “Uncle, leave off—he’s not a lumberjack!” I snapped. Everyone laughed, but Oliver looked like he was already plotting his escape.
My sisters’ kids added to the chaos. My nieces and nephews tore through the house, shrieking, knocking over a vase of daffodils. Harriet’s son sprinted up to Oliver and blurted, “Are you gonna be our new dad?” I nearly choked on my Ribena. Oliver, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat: “For now, I’m just Oliver—but I’ll be your friend.” The boy nodded and dashed off, and I silently applauded Oliver’s composure.
The worst moment came when Beatrice, oh-so-casually, brought up my ex. “Well, he was older, had a proper career—you’ve gone for youth this time, eh?” My cheeks burned. Oliver pretended not to hear, but I knew it stung. Mum tried to lighten the mood by reminiscing about how I used to bake simnel cake as a girl, but it only made things worse. My sisters and Uncle George piled on, dredging up old boyfriends, school mishaps, even the time I’d nearly set the curtains on fire at a Christmas do. Oliver listened, smiling, but I could see he felt like an outsider.
By evening, I was frayed at the edges. I wanted to grab Oliver and flee. But he, sensing my mood, whispered, “It’s alright, I’m fine. Your family’s… lively.” And that’s when I realised—he was enduring this for me. It gave me strength. When everyone raised their glasses for another toast, I cut in. “Thank you all for being here,” I said. “But Oliver matters to me, and I’m happy he’s here. So let’s just celebrate Easter, no more interrogations, yeah?” Mum nodded, my sisters quieted, and Uncle George raised his glass: “To a clever lass!”
By the end of the night, the air had warmed. Oliver and I even danced to old records Victoria put on. Despite the madness, I realised I cherished this time with my family. Yes, they were unbearable—but they were mine. And Oliver? He’d weathered it all with grace. As we got into the car to leave, he turned to me and said, “You know, your mum’s right. You’re not one to be let down.” We laughed, and I knew this mad day had brought us closer.
Next time, I’ll invite Oliver over for tea—just Mum and us, no crowd. Or at least I’ll tell my sisters to keep their jabs to themselves. But one thing’s certain: Oliver’s worth every chaotic family gathering.
