“This isn’t a hotel!” — My brother-in-law moved in, and I can’t kick him out.
Two years ago, my husband and I finally moved into our own flat. Small, but ours. Though it technically belonged to his family—and for years before us, his older brother, Simon, had lived there. To say I was thrilled about that would be a lie. But I understood—family matters, you have to respect that. I tried to accept it, stay out of their business, be “understanding.”
But Simon had one flaw—he grated on me from the start. Thirty-five years old and never held a proper job, leeching off his mother while acting like the world owed him something. He played the intellectual, spouting philosophy, yet was lazier than anyone I’d ever met.
When we moved in, Simon wasn’t there—he’d gone off to Edinburgh, supposedly to “study” and settle down. My mother-in-law gave us free rein over the flat: redecorate, replace furniture—whatever we wanted. She insisted Simon wouldn’t be back. And honestly, the place had been unlivable. Not a home—just a grimy, smoke-stained den, thick with dust and stains.
The walls were a murky brown, the ceiling streaked with grime. The sofa had springs poking through the fabric, like something left on a kerb. It felt less like a home and more like… well, I didn’t know what. Every crevice held rubbish, the air stale with cigarette smoke. My husband and I spent days hauling out bin bags of junk, then slept on a mattress for weeks, eating off cardboard boxes. But eventually—new furniture, clean white walls, warmth. The flat finally felt like ours.
For two years, we lived quietly. No unexpected guests, no shouting matches. I’d almost forgotten Simon existed—until my mother-in-law called one evening, her voice shaking, barely above a whisper: *“Simon’s coming back. Things didn’t work out for him there.”*
My husband took it calmly. *“Tough luck for him—it happens.”* But days later, another call: *“He won’t stay with me. He’s coming to yours. I offered, but he refused—says he needs to be in the city.”* Her tone carried exhaustion. She knew it was awkward, but what choice did she have?
Simon arrived. With his duffel bag, his cigarettes, his habits. No kids yet, so space was tight—we gave him the fold-out in the kitchen. I assumed it’d be a week, maybe two. I was wrong. He settled in *for good.*
Then it started. Dirty plates left in the sink. Muddy footprints *everywhere*, even on the bedside rug. A full ashtray on the counter. The flat grew thick with smoke, like a pub cellar. And worst—his *tone.* *“Why so much meat? You should save money.”* *“You’re cleaning the shelves wrong.”* *“That washing powder’s too dear; what do you need it for?”*
Him—never worked a day in his life—now lecturing *me* on how to live. I bit my tongue. Then my husband got sent on a three-month assignment—leaving me alone with this… *lodger.*
I tried explaining to my husband. Told him I couldn’t stand living with another man under my roof—one who wouldn’t even say *cheers* for dinner. But he just sighed. *“He’s my brother. He’s struggling. Just bear with it.”*
But I *can’t.* This is *my* home. *My* air, *my* space. I clean, I cook, I keep things decent—while he just *exists*, like it’s his right. I don’t want to seem hysterical. But I’m not a maid, and this isn’t some boarding house.
What do I do? Endure the mess, the smoke, the lectures? Or stand my ground—and risk wrecking our peace? I’m terrified that trying to keep the peace might cost *me* everything I am.
