“Oh for goodness’ sake, not again!” I nearly screamed at my husband’s sister. But I bit my tongue. And there she was—back with her weekend bag in hand…
I’m Emma, thirty-nine years old. I’ve been married to William for twelve years now. We’ve got a decent, solid little family—our son’s growing up, and on the surface, everything’s fine. But there’s one problem that’s been poisoning my life for years: his sister, Margaret.
Margaret’s eight years older than William. Never been married, no kids. Lives alone in the house across the street and… practically lives with us too. I’m not exaggerating. She turns up at our flat like a shadow—quiet, relentless, every single day. Sometimes I swear Margaret’s got a spare key to our building sprouting right out of her handbag.
At first, I tried being polite, even sweet. Well, she’s family, after all. I thought she’d pop in, have a cuppa, chat a bit, and leave. But she came every evening. And on weekends. And during holidays. And when we had other guests over. Even when I was ill—she’d still show up.
Margaret has no filter. She’s always got something to say—how I cook, how I raise our son, how I dress. One minute I’m too quiet, the next I laugh too loud, then the roast is dry, or the flat’s “not tidy enough.” Worst of all, she doesn’t ask—she demands. And I just swallow it. Because I hate drama. Because William says, “Em, just bear with her—she’s on her own, we’re all she’s got.”
So I did. But patience isn’t infinite.
Margaret works as an accountant for a small firm. She finishes work before me and… comes straight to ours. I walk in—she’s already on the sofa, the telly blaring, the cat hiding under the bed. Our son’s glued to his phone. And there she sits, like she owns the place. Dinner’s waiting. Or more often—I’m waiting for her to get out of the bath. She eats with us, then spends hours droning on about her “adventures” at the tax office—which no one listens to. Then she leaves. Sometimes, she stays over because she’s “scared of thunderstorms” or “the heating’s dodgy at home.”
When we planned a trip—Margaret tagged along. Didn’t matter if I’d been dreaming of a weekend alone with William. Didn’t matter that he’d promised to take me to Brighton for my birthday. Margaret was there. In our hotel room. Sleeping in the next bed. All paid for by William. And she earns decent money—always bragging about her savings, putting away pounds for a “rainy day.” Seems to me she thinks that rainy day is *me.*
And William’s mum? She thinks I’m ungrateful. Says Margaret’s not a stranger, just lonely and needs us. And I get it—she’s got no family, no kids. But why should I pay with my peace?
Once, I snapped at William:
“I’ve had enough. She bulldozes every boundary. She’s *everywhere.* It’s unbearable!”
He just shrugged.
“What do you want me to do? She’s my sister…”
It came to a head recently. We finally got a night out—just us. I’d begged for it, arranged for a friend to watch our son. The moment we sat down in the theatre—her call.
“Where *are* you? Why wasn’t I invited? Are you cutting me out now?” she shrieked down the line.
Two days later—she was back. Overnight bag. Pyjamas. Favourite show queued up. “My weekend’s free,” she said. “Thought I’d spend it with you.”
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter. I almost screamed. But I didn’t. And inside? Something just… snapped.
I don’t know how to tell William I can’t do this anymore. That I need a home without a third adult. Without endless opinions. Without meltdowns. Without *Margaret.*
And I’m terrified that if nothing changes—one day, I’ll have to walk away. Just to breathe properly again. Because even love can’t survive when there’s *another life* wedged between you and your husband. Too loud. Too pushy. Too… *wrong.*
