I never wanted this, but here I am, packing our bags to take my son Daniel to stay with my mum, Irene Whitmore. All because yesterday, while we were out for a stroll, my husband Simon decided to play the gracious host and let relatives—his cousin Olivia with her husband Charles and their two kids, Emma and Jack—move into *our* bedroom. The audacity! He didn’t even bother to ask me. Just said, “You and Daniel can stay with your mum—plenty of space there.” I’m still reeling. This is *our* home, *our* room, and I’m expected to haul off like some unwanted guest? Absolutely not.
It started when we got back from the park. Daniel was cranky, tired, and all I wanted was to put him down for a nap and have a quiet cuppa. I walked in, and chaos had taken over. Olivia and Charles had already claimed our bed, their kids were tearing through the room like wild things, and my things—books, makeup, even my laptop—had been shoved into a corner like I’d moved out. I just stood there, stunned. “What the hell is this?” I asked Simon. He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Olivia needed a place to stay. Thought you and Daniel could pop over to your mum’s. Plenty of room there.”
I nearly choked. First off, it’s *our* house! We paid the mortgage together, chose the sofa, the paint, everything. Now I’m supposed to vanish because his family fancied a holiday? And second—why didn’t he ask? I might’ve agreed if he’d just *talked* to me. But no, he just dropped it on me. Meanwhile, Olivia didn’t even apologise. Just flashed a smile and said, “Oh, Anna, don’t fuss—we’ll only be a fortnight!” A fortnight? I don’t want strangers touching my things for *two minutes*.
Charles was worse—sitting on *our* sofa, drinking from *my* favourite mug, nodding along like a sheep. And their kids? Emma spilled juice all over the rug, and Jack treated my wardrobe like a jungle gym. I tried hinting this wasn’t a B&B, but Olivia just waved me off. “They’re just kids—what do you expect?” Right. And I’m expected to clean up after them.
Later, I begged Simon for a word. Told him how humiliated I felt, how Daniel needs his own bed, his routine—not some makeshift cot at his gran’s. But Simon just rolled his eyes. “Anna, don’t be dramatic. Family helps family.” *Family?* What are we, then—decorations? I was so furious I nearly cried. Instead, I started packing. If he thinks I’ll just swallow this, he’s dead wrong.
Mum was livid when I rang. “Simon thinks he can just hand your home over?” she snapped. “Come straight here, love. You and Daniel are always welcome—and then we’ll deal with *him*.” Mum’s got a temper, and right now, I wouldn’t blame her if she stormed in and chucked them all out. But I’m not after a row. Just a safe space for my boy while I figure out what comes next.
As I folded Daniel’s pyjamas, he looked up with those big blue eyes. “Mum, are we staying at Gran’s long?” I hugged him tight. “Not long, sweetheart. Just till things settle.” But deep down, I know—I won’t step foot back in that house until it’s *ours* again. And Simon had better decide what matters more—his misplaced hospitality, or his actual family.
