*”I could scream!”* I wanted to yell at my sister-in-law. But I bit my tongue. And there she was—yet again—dragging her suitcase through our front door for the weekend…
My name’s Emily, I’m thirty-nine, and I’ve been married to Richard for twelve years. We’ve got a decent, solid little family—a growing son, a nice home, everything *should* be fine. Except for one tiny, *enormous* problem that’s been poisoning my life for years: Richard’s sister, Margaret.
Margaret is eight years older than Richard, never married, no kids. She lives alone in the house across the road, but honestly? She might as well have a permanent room in ours. I’m not exaggerating. She drifts into our flat like a particularly stubborn ghost—quiet, relentless, *daily*. Sometimes I suspect she’s got a spare key to our building growing in the depths of her handbag like some kind of fungal infestation.
At first, I tried to be polite, even friendly. Well, she *is* family, after all. I thought she’d pop round for a cuppa, natter a bit, then toddle off. But no. She came every evening. And every weekend. And on holiday. And when we had guests over. Even when I was ill—*there she was*, sipping my tea and asking about my temperature.
Margaret has no filter. She critiques *everything*—the way I cook, how I raise our son, my wardrobe choices. I’m either too quiet, laughing too loudly, my Victoria sponge is dry, or the house is *”not properly tidy.”* Worst of all? She doesn’t ask. She *tells*. And I just… swallow it. Because I hate rows. Because Richard says, *”Love, just humour her—she’s got no one else but us.”*
So I did. But patience isn’t bloody infinite.
Margaret’s an accountant at a small firm, gets home from work before me, and—naturally—heads straight to ours. I walk in, and there she is, lounging on our sofa, the telly blaring, our cat hiding under the bed. Our son glued to his phone. And *her*, holding court like she owns the place. *Dinner’s waiting.* Or, more often, *I’m* waiting—for her to finally vacate the bathroom. She eats with us, then drones on for *hours* about her thrilling “adventures” in tax law, which no one listens to. Then she *might* leave. Or—joy of joys—she’ll stay overnight because *”the storm’s too loud”* or *”her boiler’s dodgy.”*
When we planned trips? Margaret came along. Didn’t matter if I dreamed of a romantic weekend with Richard. Didn’t matter that he’d *promised* to take me to Brighton for my birthday. Margaret was there. In our hotel room. Snoring in the next bed. All paid for by Richard—never mind that she earns *plenty* and is always banging on about *”saving for a rainy day.”* Apparently, that rainy day is *me*.
And Richard’s mum? Oh, she thinks I’m *ungrateful*. *”She’s family, love! She’s just lonely!”* And I *get* it—Margaret *is* alone. But why does my peace have to be the price?
Once, I snapped at Richard:
*”I’ve had enough. She bulldozes every boundary. She’s *everywhere*. It’s *exhausting.*”*
He just shrugged.
*”What d’you want me to do? She’s my sister…”*
The final straw? Last month. We *finally* got a night out—just the two of us. I *begged* for this. Booked tickets to the theatre, arranged for my mate to watch our son. We’d barely settled into our seats when—*ring ring*. Margaret.
*”Where are you?! Why wasn’t I invited? Are you cutting me out now?!”* she shrieked down the phone.
Two days later? There she was again. Overnight bag. Pyjamas. A *”lovely series to watch together!”* Announced, bright as you please: *”My weekend’s free—thought I’d spend it with you!”*
I stood in the kitchen, white-knuckling the counter. I nearly *screamed*. But I didn’t. And somewhere inside me—something *snapped*.
I don’t know how to tell Richard that I can’t do this anymore. That I want a home with just *two* adults in it—not three. No more unsolicited advice. No more dramatics. No more *Margaret*.
And I’m terrified that if nothing changes? I’ll have to walk away. Just to *breathe* again. Because not even love can survive when there’s *another* life wedged between you and your husband. Too loud. Too clingy. Too… *not mine.*
