December 31
Where am I supposed to put this massive bowl of pork pie jelly? Aunt Margaret grumbled, wrestling the heavy dish towards the fridge. No space in there at allstuffed to the gills with your odd bits and pieces… Whats this? Carpaccio and avocado? Good grief, sounds foreign! She squished my neatly stacked containers as she tried to make room.
Emily, my wife, stood by the hob, stirring her special Christmas sauce. I watched her take a deep breath and silently count to ten. The relatives hadnt even been in the house twenty minutes, but already the place felt less like our home and more like the set of a chaotic family dramahustle, bustle, and a determination to rearrange our daily life their way.
Aunt Margaret, would you mind popping it out on the balcony? Emily asked gently, keeping her tone light. Its cold out there and well protectednothing will happen to the pork pie jelly. I need the fridge for the salads; theyll spoil if they freeze.
Theres dust blowing about out there! Aunt Margaret snorted, indignant. Shes formidable, with tightly curled perm and a sprawling floral dressing gown shed changed into almost immediately upon arrival. And its not right, leaving food on the floor. Ill just move your boxes of leavesno ones going to eat that. Men need meat, not rabbit food.
Emily glanced at me, pleading. I was sat at the kitchen table, slicing bread and trying to blend into the wallpaper. I know Margaret and her daughter, my cousin Heather, all too wellHeather was already critiquing the tiling in our bathroom at full volume.
Tom, could you help Aunt Margaret with her pork pie jelly? The side table on the balcony is clear and clean. No dust at all, Emily said, her voice firm.
I got up, took the weighty bowl from Aunt Margaretwho still protestedand disappeared down the hall. Margaret, now unburdened and craving attention, turned immediately to Emily.
Youre looking terribly pale, Emily! On a diet again? All skin and bones. Look at Heatherrosy cheeks, right as rain! Youre shrinking away. And your décor? Bland! All white and grey. So cold and sterile. You should get some gold wallpaper; it looks so posh these days!
We prefer minimalist style, Auntie, Emily replied, tasting her sauce. Everyone has different tastes.
Heather appeared suddenly. Shes three years older than Emily and never misses a chance to act superior, as if shes Emilys wise elder by decades. Heathers two boys, ages five and six, trailed her, hands coated in chocolate from goodness knows where.
Emily, did you only put in a shower? Heather sighed, dropping into a chair and crossing her legs. No proper bath then? Where will I wash the boys tonight? They’re used to splashing about.
We did the bathroom for ourselves, Heather. We like a shower. The boys can be rinsed off like grownups, Emily countered, more and more annoyed.
This visit had been in the offing for months. Margaret and Heather, from Nottingham, decided theyd spend the holidays in London for a bit of family and to see the city lights. Emily, raised to be hospitable, couldnt say no, though she remembered their last visitafter which she spent a week recovering and scrubbing the flat.
Then, we lived in a cramped two-bed with peeling laminate. Now, at last, we were in a spacious three-bed where, only last month, wed finished the designer renovations wed saved for years. This place is our haven, every detail chosen with care.
Emilys sanctuary is the bedroomthe private zone, temple of peace. Navy walls, blackout curtains, a massive bed with a mattress that cost as much as a family car, and thick carpet to sink into. We agreed: no guests in the bedroom, doors always shut. The sitting room had a fold-out sofa for visitors and, if necessary, my study offered a proper daybed.
Mum, Im thirsty! whined the younger of Heathers boys, tugging his mums sleeve.
Oh, go ask Auntie Emily for juice, Heather replied, barely looking up. Emily, could you sort the boys out? Theyre worn out from the train.
Emily fetched apple juice from the fridge and poured it carefully.
Stay neat, please. Try not to spill; thats real oak flooring under your feet, Emily asked.
Oh, dont fuss over your flooring! Margaret scoffed. Furniture is for people, not shrines! If the kids spill, you just wipe it. You’re so prickly these days, Emily, you act like some grand Londoner now.
Sensing trouble, I tried to redirect. Shall we move to the table? Its past fivetime to see out the old year, isnt it?
We sat down, albeit chaotically. The boys darted about, filching cheese and ham from platters, Heather nattered loudly to a friend by phone, and Margaret critiqued every dish.
King prawn salad? she picked at a prawn and inspected it. Dont get it. Whats wrong with proper Egg and Cress? All this theatre and odd food. Emily, couldnt you just make plain boiled potatoes? These fancy truffle mashed spuds smell oddmaybe theyve turned.
Its a delicacy, Mum, Heather mumbled, scrolling through her phone. Still, I like the traditional fare. Emily, pass the mushroomshomemade?
Bought from a farmers market, Emily replied.
No effort these days. I brought a jar of my ownreal mushrooms, Ill open them now, youll see what proper mushrooms taste like.
Emily quietly chewed her food, eyes fixed on her plate. Under the table, I squeezed her hand.
Three days, just three days, my look tried to reassure.
As the evening wore on and the children discovered their tablets, the first bottle of English sparkling wine disappeared and the talk turned to the sleeping arrangements.
My backs wrecked, Margaret lamented, rubbing her hips. That train was murder, all joltsshaken to bits. I need to lie down.
You do, Mum, Heather agreed supportively. Emily, so where are we sleeping?
Emily braced herself.
Weve made up the lounge; the sofa folds out to a big bed, plenty of space for two adults. Heather, your boys can bunk on the daybed in Toms studyits full size and very comfy. If spaces tight, weve got a great air mattress for the lounge.
Silence fell. Margaret paused, Heather raised an eyebrow.
What do you meansofa? Margaret gaped, as if Emily had lost her senses. I cant sleep on a sofa! My slipped disc, my poor spine! I’ll barely stand up in the morning. I need a proper bed, flat and soft!
Aunt Margaret, the sofa is orthopedic; specially chosen for guests, firm and supportive, Emily explained.
But its a sofa! Margaret interrupted. That’s for young ones. Im a woman of a certain age; I thought youd offer us the master bedroom. Heard your mattress is miraculous!
Emily froze. Shed expected demands, but not a direct land-grab for our inner sanctuary.
The bedroom? I asked, frowning. Margaret, that’s our own room. Where we sleep.
So what? Heather shrugged. You two are young, fit. Whats a couple of nights on a sofa or the floor? Mum needs comfort. And with the boys in with us, its easierdoors closed, wont wake you.
Emily reddened. You want us to vacate our own room and bed so you can take the master bedroom and we sleep in the lounge?
Come on, dont be dramatic, protested Margaret. Not vacatejust temporarily, for the holidays. Guests get the best. Thats how I was taught. Isnt that right, Heather?
Traditions feeding and hosting, Emily responded, coolly. But our bed is personal, like a toothbrushused every night. Its not for sharing. Sorry, not possible.
Heather slammed her glass down, rattling the tableware.
Are you serious, Emily? You cant spare your own bed for your aunt and cousins? Weve come all this way, brought gifts, and you stick us on the sofa like stray dogs?
Its not like stray dogs, I said, surprised. The sofa cost £2,000; I sleep on it sometimes and love it.
Dont talk to me about prices! Margaret snapped. Its about respect! Your mum would be ashamed if she saw how you treat us. Youre selfish! Just like your father!
That was a low blow. Emilys mumgentle and selflesshad always bent over backwards for her sister. Margarets visits had left long scars: taking the best spoils, endless criticism, and then vanishing, leaving Emilys mum battered and broke.
Dont mention Mum, Emily said quietly, yet firmly. She was a saint and you took advantage for years. Im not her. I know my boundaries. The bedroom is off-limits. If thats unacceptable, theres a good hotel nearbyI can help book a room.
A hotel?! Heather choked. Youre kicking us out, sending us to a hotel? For money? Mum, you hear that?
I do, darling. Its killing me… Margaret clutched her chest in theatrical agony. Water, quick!
Heather dashed for some tap water and slipped her mother a couple of pills. The boys, sensing the drama, sat in fascinated silence.
Thats it, Heather commanded after Margaret recovered. Either we sleep in your bedroom like human beings, or were offtonight. Well tell the family what youve become, Emily, too posh for your own blood. Your choice.
Emily looked at me; I returned a steely gaze. Enough was enough. I was tired of the stomping about, the demandsour home was being held hostage.
Heather waited for Emilys surrender. Instead, Emily stood up. Heather, my offer is generous: good food, lovely company, comfy places to sleep. Yet you demand our private space and issue ultimatums. If that matters more than being together, perhaps its best you go.
Margaret shot upright, suddenly mobile. Pack up, Heather! Get the coats on the kids. Well not spend another minute in this… this pit! Better a bench at Kings Cross than under this roof!
Mum, its late. No trains left! Heather panicked, realising Emily wasnt bluffing. Shed expected Emily to cave in.
Taxi! Well go to Christinas across townshe may live in a council bedsit, but shes got a big heart! Margaret declared. You keep your truffleshorrible things!
Chaos followedHeather frantically packing their bags and Margaret walking circles round our flat, loudly moaning to imagined listeners about her cruel fate.
And the gifts! Give them back! Margaret shouted from the hall. I gave you proper linen towels! Didnt earn them. Christina will get them, she knows gratitude.
Emily fetched the stiff, scratchy towelsnever intended for useand handed over the bundle.
Here you go. And dont forget your mushroom jar.
Snatch those too! Heather said, grabbing the gifts. And any sweetsmy boys dont want them here!
I watched, leaning against the doorframe, ashamed at how grown adults acted like tantrum-prone children.
Fifteen minutes later, they were set. Margaret barely paused in her tirade, recounting ancient grievances and predicting Emilys lonely old age, as no onell bother with her.
Did you get a cab? I asked.
We don’t need your handouts! Heather snapped, stabbing her phone. Come on, Mum, cars outside in five. Fresh air outside this hellhole will be a relief!
They stormed out, slamming the brand-new front door so hard dust fell from the ceiling plaster.
At last, silence. Only the gentle hum of the fridge and the tick of the sitting room clock. The remains of the prawn salad sat untouched, juice splattered on the table linen, napkins strewn about.
Emily sank slowly into a chair and covered her faceher shoulders quivered.
I walked over, embraced her, kissed her hair.
Thats it, Emtheyre gone.
Emily raised her head. No tearsjust laughter. Not hysterical, but freeing.
Did you hear it, Tom? Better to sleep at the station than here! Can you believe it? Feels like winning the lottery!
It is a bit of luck, I agreed. You know, they forgot their pork pie jellystill on the balcony!
She laughed bright and clear.
Oh, the priceless pork pie! Their pride and joy left behind! Imagine Christinas face when the whole troop descends on her at midnighttwelve square feet, a husband with a drinking problem. What a holiday!
Thats their story now, I poured myself a generous glass. Earlier, I felt awkward turning them away. But when Margaret invoked your mother… I almost did it myself. You were brilliant, Em. So brave.
I just love our room, Emily confessed, sipping from my glass. And you. And our peace. This is shaping up to be the best New Year ever. Just us, enough food for a regiment, and nobody moaning about my prawn salad.
We started to clear away the extra cutlery and plates, Emily stacking up dishes and me heading for the dishwasher. The air felt fresher, lighter, as if some oppressive cloud of resentment and expectation had finally drifted away.
Emily wandered to the window. Outside, huge, fluffy snowflakes fell, covering the road and the tracks of the departed taxi. The city sparkled, festive and alive. Somewhere out there, Margaret and Heather steamed towards their next victim, dragging their baggage of bitterness along. I felt a flash of sympathy; living weighed down with resentment must be exhaustingfar harder than a couple of nights on the sofa.
Tom, Emily called, lets put some music on. And light those candles. Weve still got our celebration.
Definitely, I replied. And dinners almost readythe duck they never even tasted.
An hour later, we sat at an elegantly reset table, candles glowing, gentle jazz playing in the background. The apple-stuffed duck was perfectcrispy, succulent, and fragrant.
To us, I toasted, raising my glass. To our home, and that it always stays open only for those who treat it kindly.
And to boundaries, Emily clinked her glass. Weve learned to protect them.
Deep into the night, lying in our cherished bedroom on our celebrated mattress, Emily smiled with pure happiness. The quiet was comforting, the sheets fresh and scented with lavenderno trace of anothers perfume. Her thoughts drifted to Margaret and Heather, perhaps sleeping on a camp bed or huddled at a train station, cursing selfish Emily. But for the first time, she felt no guilt.
She saw the truth: you cannot please everyone, especially when it costs your own well-being. And if peace costs you a few angry relatives, then its a fair price to pay.
Next morning, Emilys phone buzzed incessantly with messages from family, full of outrage and exaggerated talespoor sick Aunt forced out into the snow! Emily didnt bother to reply. She flipped her phone to airplane mode, stretched in bed, and greeted the new year with a smile.
As for Margarets abandoned pork pie jelly, Emily and I took it down and fed it to the street dogs later. The dogs were overjoyedno complaints about the amount of garlic or texture. Animals, I realized, are far better at appreciating kindness than some people.
And that, as I lay in the soft morning light, is my lesson for the old year: Youre allowed to defend your peace. The ones who truly love you will understand.
