**Diary Entry – 5th June**
I don’t fancy it one bit, but here I am, packing my bags to take my son Daniel to stay with my mum, Margaret. And all because yesterday, while I was out with him, my husband Simon, in his infinite wisdom, decided to play the gracious host and let his cousins—Charlotte, her husband Edward, and their two kids, Ellie and Oliver—crash in our room. The cheek of it! He didn’t even bother asking me first. Just said, “You and Daniel can stay at your mum’s; there’s plenty of space.” I’m still fuming. It’s our home, our room, and now I’m expected to clear out for strangers? Not on my life.
It started when I got back from the park with Daniel. He was knackered and fussy, and all I wanted was to put him down for a nap and enjoy a quiet cuppa. But the moment I stepped inside, chaos. Our bedroom—where Simon, Daniel, and I sleep—had been taken over. Charlotte and Edward were already settling in, their kids racing about, scattering toys, while my things—books, makeup, even my laptop—had been shoved into a corner like I no longer lived there. I stood there, gobsmacked, and asked Simon, “What’s all this?” He just shrugged, dead calm, like he was talking about the weather. “Charlotte’s family needed a place to stay. Thought you and Daniel could pop round your mum’s—plenty of room there.”
I nearly choked. First off, this is our home! We paid for this flat together, furnished it, made it ours. And now I’m meant to leave because his relatives fancied a city break? Secondly, why didn’t he ask me? I might’ve agreed—if he’d bothered to discuss it. But no, he just dropped it on me. Charlotte didn’t even apologise. Just flashed a grin and said, “Oh, Emily, don’t fret! We’ll only be a fortnight!” A fortnight? I wouldn’t want strangers pawing my things for two days!
Edward, her husband, might as well have been a statue—sipping tea from my favourite mug on our sofa, nodding along. And their kids? Ellie, about six, had already spilled juice on the rug, and little Oliver, four, thought my wardrobe was a brilliant hiding spot. I tried hinting this wasn’t a hotel, but Charlotte just waved me off. “Oh, they’re just kids—what can you do?” Sure, and I suppose cleaning up after them is my job now.
I pulled Simon aside later, told him how hurt I was that he’d made this decision without me. Explained that Daniel needs routine—his own bed, his space. Dragging a three-year-old to my mum’s to sleep on a camp bed isn’t fair. But Simon just shrugged again. “Emily, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Family helps family.” Family? So Daniel and I aren’t family? I was so angry I nearly cried. Instead, I started packing. If he thinks I’ll just swallow this, he’s dead wrong.
When Mum heard, she was livid. “Since when does Simon decide who lives in your home?” she fumed over the phone. “Come straight here, love. Daniel’s always welcome, and you’ll sort that with your husband later.” Mum’s got a temper, mind—she was ready to storm over and boot them out herself. But I’m not after a row. Right now, I just want Daniel comfortable, and time to think.
Packing Daniel’s toys, he looked up at me with those big eyes and asked, “Mum, are we staying at Granny’s long?” I hugged him tight. “Not long, sweetheart. Just a little while, then we’ll go home.” But deep down, I know: I’ll only go back when I’m sure it’s our home again—not some free B&B for Simon’s lot. And he’d best decide what matters more: his “hospitality” or his own family.
**Lesson today:** A man’s home is his castle—but his wife’s the one who decides who gets past the moat.
