I’ve regretted a hundred times over bringing my new boyfriend, James, to Mum’s Easter gathering. You’d think a family holiday would be lovely—hot cross buns, painted eggs, loved ones around the table. But the moment I saw how many people had crammed into Mum’s tiny house, I nearly turned on my heel and bolted. All three of my sisters—Eleanor, Charlotte, and Beatrice—had shown up with their husbands and kids. Then there was Mum’s brother, Uncle Edward, with his wife and two grown sons. And, just for good measure, a handful of distant relatives whose names I could barely recall. Right in the middle of this family tornado? Me and James, my new-ish boyfriend, whom I’d foolishly decided to introduce to the lot. Worst. Idea. Ever.
The inquisition started the second we crossed the threshold. Mum pounced before James could even take his shoes off. “James, what do you do for work? How old are you? What are your *plans*?” James held his own, answering politely with a smile, but I could see his shoulders tense. Meanwhile, my sisters—clearly conspiring—decided to put him through the wringer. Eleanor, the eldest, immediately bragged about her husband’s recent promotion and their brand-new SUV. Charlotte chimed in about her daughter’s *exceptional* ballet debut. And Beatrice, the youngest, just stirred the pot, whispering, “So, sis, where’d you find this one? Tinder?” (James is five years younger, which, apparently, was the scandal of the century.)
Mum—Margaret Wilkins, though everyone calls her Maggie—took it upon herself to fatten James up like a Christmas goose. She kept piling hot cross buns onto his plate, tutting, “Eat up, love, you’re skin and bones!” James thanked her weakly, but I could tell he was drowning in butter and dried fruit. Then Mum launched into *stories*. “James, our girl here used to dream of marrying a pilot! You’re not a pilot, but you’ll do.” The table erupted in laughter while I wished the floor would swallow me whole. James grinned, but I knew he was cringing inside.
Then Uncle Edward, ever the traditionalist, decided to “test the lad’s mettle.” He poured James a generous glass of homemade elderflower wine and boomed, “To the new couple! But listen, son, our women are a handful—you sure you’re up for it?” James nodded and drank, but I felt his grip tighten on my hand under the table. And when Uncle Ed suggested they “step outside for a bit of axe-throwing,” I snapped, “For heaven’s sake, he’s an accountant, not a lumberjack!” Everyone laughed, but I swear James was mentally mapping escape routes.
The kids, of course, added pure chaos. My nieces and nephews tore through the house like tornadoes, shrieking and knocking over Mum’s prized vase of daffodils. Charlotte’s youngest, a cheeky little thing, ran up to James and asked, “Are you gonna be our new daddy?” I nearly spat out my elderflower cordial. James, bless him, didn’t miss a beat. “For now, I’m just James. But I’d love to be your friend.” The kid nodded seriously before zooming off, and I could’ve kissed James for his patience.
The worst moment? When Eleanor “casually” brought up my ex. “Well, he was older, had a proper job—so you’ve traded *up* for youth now, eh?” My face burned. James pretended not to hear, but I knew it stung. Mum tried to lighten the mood by reminiscing about my childhood baking disasters, but it backfired spectacularly. Soon, everyone was sharing embarrassing stories—my teenage crumbles, that time I accidentally set fire to the Christmas pudding—while James smiled politely, clearly feeling like an outsider.
By evening, I was done. I wanted to grab James and flee. But then he leaned in and whispered, “It’s fine. Really. Your family’s… lively.” And just like that, I realised he was putting up with all this *for me*. That gave me the nerve to speak up when the next round of toasts began. “I’m glad you’re all here,” I said, “but James matters to me. So let’s just enjoy Easter without the interrogation, yeah?” Mum nodded, my sisters quieted, and Uncle Ed raised his glass. “To a woman who knows her mind!”
By the end, things warmed up. James and I even danced to the old records Beatrice dug out. And despite the circus, I felt a pang of affection for my maddening, overbearing family. They’re a lot, but they’re mine. And James? He handled it like a champ. As we drove home, he turned to me and said, “Your mum’s right, you know. You’re not someone to let down.” We laughed, and I realised this ridiculous day had brought us closer.
Next time, we’ll visit Mum for a quiet cuppa—no crowds, no interrogations. Or at least I’ll warn my sisters to behave. But one thing’s certain: James is worth every chaotic family gathering.
