The last thing I want to do is pack my bags, but here I am, gathering our things to take my son Daniel to stay with my mother, Margaret Adams. And all because yesterday, while I was out with Daniel, my husband Simon had the nerve to play the gracious host and let his relatives stay in our room—his cousin Olivia, her husband Charles, and their two children, Emily and James. The worst part? He didn’t even bother to ask me. Just casually said, “You and Daniel can stay with your mum—there’s plenty of room there.” I’m still reeling from the audacity. This is our home, our space, and now I’m supposed to clear out for strangers? No, that’s too far.
It started when I came back from our walk. Daniel, as usual, was fussy and exhausted, and all I wanted was to put him down for a nap and enjoy a quiet cuppa. But the second I stepped inside, chaos greeted me. Our bedroom—mine, Simon’s, and Daniel’s—was already commandeered by Olivia and Charles. Their kids, Emily and James, were tearing through the room, scattering toys, while my things—my books, makeup, even my laptop—had been shoved into a corner like I didn’t live here anymore. I stood there, thunderstruck, and asked Simon, “What is this?” He just shrugged, as if discussing the weather. “Olivia’s family needed a place to stay. I figured you and Daniel could go to Margaret’s—there’s loads of space there.”
I nearly choked on my fury. First, this is our home. We paid for this flat together, furnished it, made it ours. And now I’m supposed to leave because his relatives fancied a trip to London? Second, how dare he not even consult me? I might have agreed to help, but at least have the decency to ask. Instead, he just dropped it on me. Olivia didn’t even apologize—just flashed a smile and said, “Annie, don’t worry, it’s only for a couple of weeks!” A couple of weeks? I don’t want strangers touching my things for a single night.
Charles was worse—silent as a brick, lounging on our sofa, sipping tea from my favourite cup, nodding along to whatever Olivia said. And their kids? Emily, six, had already spilled juice on our rug, and four-year-old James decided my wardrobe was the perfect spot for hide-and-seek. When I hinted this wasn’t a hotel, Olivia just waved me off. “Oh, they’re just kids, what do you expect?” Right, and I suppose cleaning up after them is my problem now.
I tried talking to Simon alone. Told him how hurt I was, how he’d made this decision without me. Explained that Daniel needs stability—his own bed, his own space. Dragging a three-year-old to my mother’s, where he’d be sleeping on a fold-out, isn’t fair. But Simon just shrugged again. “Erin, stop making a scene. They’re family—we help family.” Family? And what are Daniel and I—strangers? I was so angry I nearly cried. Instead, I started packing. If he thinks I’ll just swallow this, he’s wrong.
When my mum, Margaret, heard what happened, she was livid. “Erin, since when does Simon decide who lives in your home?” she fumed over the phone. “Come here, love, I’ll take care of you and Danny, and you’ll sort this out with your husband later.” Mum’s stubborn—she’d march over and toss them out herself if I let her. But I’m not looking for a row. Right now, I just want my son to be comfortable while I figure out what to do.
As I pack our bags, I keep replaying it all. How could Simon erase us from our own lives so easily? I’ve always been a good wife—cooked, cleaned, supported him. And he didn’t even think how I’d feel, walking in to find strangers in our bedroom. The worst part? He didn’t even apologize. Just told me, “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” Sorry, Simon, but this isn’t a molehill—it’s a bloody mountain sitting on my bed.
Now, on the way to Mum’s, I’ll admit—there’s some relief. Her house is always warm, smelling of fresh scones, and Daniel adores playing in her garden. But I’m not letting this go. Once we’re back, Simon and I will have words. If he wants us to be a family, he needs to respect me and our son. As for Olivia and Charles? They can find a hotel or a rental. I don’t mind helping, but not at the cost of my home—and not without my say.
Daniel tugs at my sleeve as I zip up his toys. “Mum, are we staying at Gran’s long?” I pull him close. “Not too long, love. Just a little while, then we’ll go home.” But deep down, I know—I won’t step back into that house until it’s truly ours again. And Simon? He’d better decide what matters more—his so-called hospitality, or his family.
