**Strangers in Our Home: A Diary of Unwelcome Guests**
I sat at the kitchen table of our small flat in Manchester, clutching a mug of cold tea, fighting back tears of frustration. Four years of marriage to James, endless sacrifices for our own home—only for his mother to turn it into a guesthouse without asking. The last straw was her imposing her friend on us, expecting us to play host.
James and I came from modest backgrounds. Years of renting damp flats with mould for company taught us the value of every pound. We scrimped on everything to afford the mortgage. Our families barely helped—my mum gave us a blender for our wedding, while his mother, Margaret, handed over a toaster that broke within a month.
Finally, we bought a one-bedroom flat. We did the renovations ourselves—no money for builders. James spent nights wallpapering, while I painted until my arms ached. Relatives never lifted a finger, only showing up for holidays. But the moment we made the place liveable, Margaret announced, “You must host my friend Lydia. I pulled strings to get her a spa break—she owes me. Show her around!”
No asking, no consideration—just a demand. So while she cares for her own comfort, we’re left to entertain a stranger, wasting time and money? I seethed, but James, as usual, stayed silent.
We met Lydia at the station. She was rude and entitled, treating us like unpaid tour guides, demanding coffee, meals, endless photos. James and I felt like servants. I bit my tongue for his sake.
This wasn’t Margaret’s first offence. Last year, her younger brother Tom stayed a month—eating our food, drinking, shouting at night. He even stole James’s jacket, claiming he needed it more, then demanded I find him a “city girl” so he wouldn’t return to his village. Margaret just shrugged: “He’s young, let him have his fun.”
Lydia left glowing, but I felt nothing but resentment. I knew it wouldn’t end. James can’t say no to his mother. He’s forgotten how she kicked him out at 17 with just a backpack, shouting he should fend for himself. Now she plays the saint, and he believes her.
I tried reasoning with him: we’re a family, we’ll have a child soon—strangers don’t belong here. But he’d just stare blankly. “Emily, Mum means well,” he’d say, like a broken record.
Means well? Margaret uses us as she pleases! She has her own two-bed flat—why not host her guests there? She didn’t give a penny toward our home, yet exploits our kindness. Her fake smiles make my blood boil. To James, she’s doting; behind his back, she’s a boundary-stomping bully.
I finally snapped. The moment Lydia left, Margaret called to “thank” us—then hinted her cousin would visit soon. I erupted: “Enough! This is our home, not a hotel! Host your own friends!”
She scoffed. “Ungrateful! After all I’ve done?”
James paled. “Emily, why upset Mum? She’s not malicious.”
My heart ached. He doesn’t see her manipulation, how she’s tearing us apart. I want to protect our home, our future child—but how, when my husband sides with her?
Now I’m at a crossroads: endure or issue an ultimatum. I wish Margaret would vanish, for James to see her true colours. But if I fight, I might lose everything. How do I put her in her place without destroying my marriage?
**Lesson learned:** Kindness shouldn’t mean being a doormat. Some battles must be fought—even if the cost is high.
