“This is too much!”—Emily refused to host the guests who had turned her flat into a free boarding house.
Sometimes life serves up stories that feel like they’ve been plucked straight from a sitcom—except the only ones laughing are the bystanders. For the person living it, there’s little amusement or ease. Such was the tale recently shared by my neighbour, Emily, a slight, soft-spoken woman in her mid-thirties. Outwardly, the picture of refinement, but as it turned out, even such people have their limits.
She once lived in Manchester, working at the local library and mingling in a circle of mutual acquaintances—a motley but good-natured bunch. Among them was Alex, a cheerful chap with a penchant for flirtation, whom she occasionally shared a pot of tea with at gatherings. They were never close, just passing faces in life’s tapestry. Later, Emily moved to London, settled into a job, and made a cosy little flat her own in the city’s southwest, nearly forgetting the old “friends” from her past.
Then one day… Alex reappeared.
Years had passed. He’d married, divorced, and married again. They crossed paths by chance on a holiday in Brighton. Oddly, Alex wasn’t with his new wife but… alone. Emily didn’t dwell on the why—it didn’t interest her. He kept trying to draw her into conversation—how was life, where did she live, what were her plans? She answered politely but without enthusiasm.
A week later, he called:
“Listen, me and Sarah—his first wife—are in London for a couple of days. Fancy putting us up?”
Emily was stunned. Before she could muster a polite refusal, three hours later, they were at her door with suitcases. “Fine,” she thought. “A day or two, I’ll manage.” But two days became five… then stretched indefinitely.
Alex and Sarah made themselves at home. They padded about in their underthings, demanded supper, hosted impromptu dance evenings, drank wine from her glasses, left messes untouched, and even invited round a few mates—“just for a quick catch-up.”
“Could we stay just one more night? It’s so lovely here!” Sarah chirped, helping herself to bread and cheese from Emily’s fridge.
Emily bit her tongue, clenched her teeth, and only on the fifth day showed them the door. She claimed illness and urgent matters. After they left, she scrubbed the flat spotless and vowed: never again.
A month passed. Emily had just settled back into normalcy when Alex rang once more.
“Hello! Me and the new missus, Lucy, will be in town for a week. How’ve you been? Hope you’ll have us?”
Something inside Emily boiled over. She straightened in her chair.
“This isn’t just cheek—it’s an invasion,” she thought.
Calm but firm, she replied:
“Look, I respect you both, but my flat isn’t a hotel. I haven’t the energy—moral or physical—to go through that again. If you’re in London, there are inns, hostels, lets. I hope you understand.”
Alex hesitated, then hung up. No thanks, no apology—just silence.
Later, Emily confided in me:
“I suppose I never learned to say ‘no’ before. I thought being kind meant enduring in silence. Now I see: respect begins with oneself. And if I don’t wish to host guests, it doesn’t make me cruel. It makes me grown.”
What do you think? Did Emily do right, or should she have shown pity and let the “friends” in once more? Where lies the line between hospitality and sheer audacity?
