**Relatives Visiting: How My Politeness Led to a Scandal**
Sometimes a kind heart isn’t a blessing—it’s a trap. Especially when you’re dealing with “family” who treat your conscience like an open invitation.
I’ve always been the non-confrontational type. I hated arguments, couldn’t say no, and bent over backwards to please everyone—especially relatives. Most of them weren’t even close, but as the saying goes, “blood’s thicker than water.”
They live in a village outside Birmingham. The moment the harvest season ends, the whole lot descends upon the city. And as if by some unspoken rule, my flat is always their “home base.” Other relatives get a quick cuppa, but when it comes to staying over? Always me.
I bit my tongue. Stayed quiet. Told myself—it’s just a few days. Then back to work, peace, my own little routine.
But this year, they blindsided me.
One sunny June afternoon, they showed up—for three months.
“We’re not being a bother, are we?” Uncle Barry chuckled, hauling two bursting suitcases and a rolled-up mattress into the hallway.
“What about your garden?” I ventured cautiously.
“Oh, we’ll manage without it,” Aunt Linda chimed in, not even bothering to take off her shoes. “City air will do us good. And the kids can play with your lot—keep ‘em busy!”
As if I were some free holiday let—no fees, full board, and a warm welcome included.
A week, fine. But three months?
And we—my husband and I—had already booked a holiday. The seaside, quiet, sunshine. Bags packed, reservations made.
When I gently hinted we’d be leaving soon and maybe they should think about heading home, all hell broke loose.
“Selfish, that’s what you are, Jenny!” Uncle Barry bellowed. “Only care about yourself. We haven’t even been to Hyde Park yet, and you’re already kicking us out! Could’ve moved your holiday to autumn, couldn’t you?”
Aunt Linda huffed and stormed to the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors. The kids whined. The flat felt like the air before a thunderstorm. But I knew—if I didn’t stand my ground now, they’d be ringing in the New Year here, too.
“Sorry, but we are going,” I said firmly. “You’re grown-ups—you’ll cope.”
Silence. Then the sulking began: packing bags, washing dishes with exaggerated fury, muttering under their breath. On their way out, they raided half the fridge.
“Some hospitality,” Aunt Linda muttered without looking back.
The door slammed. And then—quiet. Glorious, sweet quiet. I sank onto the sofa, hugged a cushion, and breathed freely for the first time in weeks.
Yes, it left a sour taste. I never wanted a row. Never meant to offend. But where was the line? When did my politeness stop being kindness and start being a burden?
I know now—helping is fine. Hospitality too. But letting them walk all over you? Never again.
