“We’ll Just Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Pushy In-Laws, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Own Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it howled for attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 AM on a Saturday. My one morning to finally catch up on sleep after closing my quarterly report, not to play hostess. My husband Igor’s sister, Svetlana, looked ready to storm the Bastille on the intercom screen, with her three scruffy kids looming behind her. “Igor!” I barked, not picking up. “Your family. Your problem.” He stumbled from the bedroom, pulling on shorts backwards: if I was speaking in that tone, his family had officially reached the bottom of my patience. While he muttered into the handset, I stood in the hallway, arms folded across my chest. My flat—my rules. This three-bed in the centre of London was mine alone for years before marriage. The last thing I wanted was relatives treating it like a boarding house. The door flung open, and my fragrance-infused, immaculate hallway was invaded. Svetlana, loaded with bags, didn’t even greet me. She nudged me aside as if I were a piece of forgotten furniture. “Oh, thank God, we made it!” she sighed, dumping her bags on my Italian tiles. “Alina, what are you doing standing there? Put the kettle on, the kids are starving after the journey.” “Svetlana,” I said flatly, and Igor shrank into himself, recognising Defcon 1. “What is going on?” “He didn’t tell you?” She widened her eyes. “We’ve got a massive renovation! Pipes, floors ripped up—it’s unliveable. We’ll just stay here for a week. Loads of space, you’ll hardly notice us.” I glared at Igor. He inspected the ceiling—execution imminent. “Igor?” “Come on, Alina, she’s my sister. Can’t have the kids in a building site. One week, promise.” “One week. Seven days. You feed yourselves. Kids don’t run riot, don’t touch the walls, and stay away from my office. Silence after ten, understood?” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you’re like some prison warden. Fine. Where do we sleep? Hope it’s not the floor!” And so the chaos began. A week turned into two, then three. My lovingly designed flat became a pigsty—muddy shoes everywhere, fat stains on my countertops, crumbs, sticky patches. Svetlana took over like she owned the place. “Alina, why’s the fridge empty?” she whined one evening. “The kids need yogurt, and we’d love a steak. You earn well—you can look after family!” “You’ve got a card and shops, use them,” I replied, not glancing up from my laptop. “Tesco delivers 24/7.” “Miser,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. “Can’t take it with you when you’re dead, you know.” But things reached breaking point when I came home early and found my nephew bouncing on my Tempur mattress and his sister drawing on the wall—with my limited edition Tom Ford lipstick. “Out!” I roared, scattering kids everywhere. Svetlana bolted in, shrugged at the carnage: “They’re just kids—who cares about a mark on the wall? You can wash it off. And that lipstick? You’ll buy yourself another. Listen, the builders are useless—so we’re staying until summer. It’ll be fun, you two just rattle around here anyway!” Igor stood mute. Useless. I said nothing, just walked away to avoid a murder charge. Later, Svetlana left her phone on the table to go shower. A message flashed up: “Svetlana, next month’s rent received, tenants happy, want to extend until August? – Marina Lettings.” And a bank notification: “+£800 received.” Click. It all made sense. No renovations—she was renting her place and living free off me: free food, no bills, making a profit. Genius—on my dime. I photographed her screen, hands steady, rage replaced with icy clarity. “Igor, get in here,” I called. He read the photo. Red, then white. “Maybe it’s a mix-up?” “The real mix-up is you not kicking them out yet. You’ve got a choice. Either by tomorrow lunchtime she and the kids are gone, or you all are. Take your mother, too, for good measure.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or The Ritz, if they can afford it.” Next morning, Svetlana left for ‘shopping’—probably with her rent money—leaving the kids with Igor, who took them out. “Take them to the park. All day.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the place for parasites.” Once they’d left, I made two calls: one to a locksmith, one to the local police. Hospitality over. Time for a purge. By the time Svetlana returned, loaded with Selfridges bags, the locksmith had changed the locks and her stuff was bagged—five heavy rubbish sacks and two suitcases. She found me and a police officer at the door. “What’s this?” she screeched. “Alina, are you mad? These are my things!” “Exactly. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She bolted for the door, blocked by the constable. “Do you live here? On the tenancy register?” “I’m… my brother’s sister. We’re guests!” She turned red and purple, dialled Igor frantically—straight to voicemail. “You have no right! We have nowhere to go! I have children!” “Don’t lie. Say hi to Marina. And ask if your tenants want to extend to August, or if you’ll need to evict them to live in your own place?” Air left her like a punctured balloon. “You… how?” “You might want to lock your phone, businesswoman. You lived off me to save for a new car? Clever. Now listen: take your bags and get out. I ever see you or your kids near my building again, I’ll inform HMRC about illegal letting. And the police: I’m missing a gold ring, easy to find in your bags if they feel like a search.” (The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know.) “You evil cow,” she hissed. “God will judge.” “God’s busy. I’m finally free—and so is my flat.” She scrambled for her bags, swearing, fumbled for a taxi as the constable watched. When the lift doors closed behind her and her shattered plans, I thanked the officer. He grinned. “Call if you need me—or just get good locks.” Lock clicked behind me—delicious, solid. The cleaner was nearly finished. Igor returned alone, looked round like he expected a trap. “She’s gone,” he said. “I know.” “She was screaming about you—” “Don’t care what the rats say as they’re thrown off the ship.” I drank a perfect coffee in blissful silence. My kitchen, my fridge, my rules. No lipstick murals left, no shouting, no chaos. “Did you know about the letting?” I asked. “Never! I swear. If I had—” “If you had, you’d have kept quiet. Listen, Igor. This was the last time. One more stunt like this from your family and your bags will be right beside theirs. Understood?” He nodded, pale and fast. He knew I wasn’t joking. The coffee was hot, strong, and—finally—enjoyed in perfect, peaceful silence in my own flat. My crown didn’t pinch. It fit perfectly.

Well stay here till summer, all right!: How I Kicked Out My Husbands Cheeky Family and Changed the Locks

The doorbell didnt just ringit screeched for attention, like a cat trapped in a boot cupboard. I glanced at the clock: seven on a Saturday morning. My one sacred day to sleep in after wrestling a quarterly report to the ground, not to play host. The video entry showed my sister-in-laws not-so-charming face. Donnamy husband Nigels beloved sisterlooked set to kick down Buckingham Palace, and behind her loomed three tousle-haired children in ascending order of disarray.

Nigel! I barked, not bothering to pick up the receiver. Your lots here. You deal with them.

He shuffled out in pyjama shortsback to front, naturally. He knew the tone: my patience with his relations had crashed through the floorboards. While he mumbled half-heartedly into the phone, I stood in the hall, arms folded stiff across my chest. My home, my rules. This three-bed in central London was minebought years before we tied the knot and paid off with blood, sweat and Tesco meal deals. The last thing I wanted was a horde of freeloaders.

The front door burst open and in spilled Donna, loaded down with enough luggage to colonise the Cotswolds. She didnt even offer a good morning, just hip-checked me like she was elbowing aside an umbrella stand.

Oh, thank Heavens, we made it! she puffed, dropping her bags right onto my Italian-tiled hallway. Emma, why are you loitering? Get the kettle on, the kids are famished!

Donna, I said, voice like polished glassNigel shrank further into his shoulderswhats going on?

Didnt Nigel tell you? She batted big innocent eyes, switching on the Little Miss Helpless routine. Were having renovations! Total chaospipes dug up, floors ripped out! Cant possibly live there; the dusts murder. Well just hole up with you for a week. Youve all this space, surely! Loads of room.

I shot my husband the evil eye. He was busy inspecting the light fixtures, aware a domestic guillotine awaited him that evening.

Nigel?

Em, honestly, he bleated, shes my sister. Where are they supposed to go? Just a week.

One week, I said, each syllable a block of granite. Thats seven days. You provide your own food. No kids stampeding, no sticky paws on my walls, and dont even breathe near my study. Silence after ten or else.

Donna rolled her eyes so hard I worried theyd stick.

Honestly, Emma. What a killjoy. Youre like Matron in a Victorian boarding house. Fine, we agree. Where do we sleep? Please tell me its not the floor.

That was the overture to my personal hell.

A week turned into two. Then three. My pristine flat, crafted with the help of a professional interior designer, morphed into a tip. Shoes piled up in the foyer, each more caked in mud than the lastalways in my way. The kitchen was an obstacle course of streaky grease, crumbs, and mysterious sticky puddles. Donna behaved less like a guest and more like Lady Grantham, with me cast as her unpaid housemaid.

Emma, why is the fridge bare? she said one night, rooting through shelves with the enthusiasm of a disappointed raccoon. Kids need yogurts, and I wouldnt mind steak for dinner myself. You earn, surely you can look after family?

Youve got a bank card. Shops exist, I said without looking up from my laptop. Go nuts. Even Sainsburys delivers now.

Tightwad, she grumbled, slamming the fridge so hard jars clinked together. Cant take it with you, love!

But the real breaking point? One night I came home early and caught my nephews in my bedroom. The older one was trampoline-testing my fancy mattress (cost as much as a second-hand Mini), while the youngest was busy redecorating the wall. With my lipstick. My Tom Ford lipstick. Limited edition.

OUT! I roared, and both children scattered like startled pigeons.

Donna came running, surveyed the scribbled wall and the shattered lipstick, and threw up her hands as if Id spilled some milk.

Oh, calm down! Theyre children! One little line on the wall. Youll clean it off. And its just lipstickbit of coloured grease. Buy another, youll survive. By the way, well be staying until summerthe builders are a disaster. You two will be glad for the company! So lively!

Nigel, of course, said nothing. The man had all the starch of a wet biscuit.

I said nothing either. I just locked myself in the bathroom, clinging to my sanity by the fingernails.

Later, Donna left her phone on the kitchen counter and stepped off for a shower. The screen flashed with a message so blatant I couldnt not read itbig letters right on the lock screen, from Caroline Lettings:

Donna, Ive transferred rent for next month. Tenants are happyask if they can stay till August?

And right after, a bank notification: Balance credited: £800.

Suddenly it all clicked. No renovations. Donna had let out her grubby flat to tenantsmaybe nightly, maybe monthlyfor easy money and decided to sponge off me for food and bills, stacking up profits. A business plan worthy of The Apprentice. All at my expense.

I snapped a photo of her screen. No trembling hands nowjust chilly clarity.

Nigel, come to the kitchen, I called.

He gawped at the screen, gone pink, then white.

Emma, maybe its some mix-up

A mix-up is you not showing them the door, I replied. Youve got a choice. Either theyre off by lunchtime tomorrow, or you are. You and your entire circus.

But where will they go?

Not my problem. Tent in Hyde Park, five-star in Mayfair, whatever.

Next morning Donna breezed in, chirping about new darling boots shed spotted (presumably courtesy of illicit rental income). She left the kids with Nigel, whod bravely taken the day off work.

I waited till shed gone.
Nigel, take the children out to the park. For a good, long time.

Why?

Because Im about to fumigate the place.

As soon as they were gone, I got on the phonelocksmith first, then the local bobby.

Hospitality hour was over. Operation Clear-Out had begun.

Emma, maybe its a misunderstanding? Nigels voice echoed in my head as I watched the locksmith change the cylinder.

No misunderstandingsjust steel will.

The locksmith, a burly fellow with an anchor tattoo, finished up briskly.

Solid door, this. Thats some serious lockno chance without a power saw.

Just what I wanted. Proper security.

I sent him a bank transferenough for dinner and a movie, but the peace of mind was priceless. Next, I started bagging up Donnas thingsbig black bin bags, 120 litres a piece. Bras, childrens tights, sticky toys scattered everywhereI rammed it in, zero sentiment. Her army of random cosmetics went in with one sweep.

Forty minutes later, five fat bin bags and two suitcases stood on the landing, looking mournful.

When the lift dinged and out stepped a young constable with bags under his eyes, I was ready with my paperwork.

Morning, officer, I said, handing over my passport and Land Registry printout. Flats mine. Im the only one registered to live here. In a minute, people are going to try to force entry. Please document their little attempt at trespassing.

He flipped through the papers with all the enthusiasm of a soggy digestive.

Family?

Used to be, I smiled. Bit of a property squabble.

Donna returned in triumph, arms festooned with posh shopping bags. Her smile vanished when she saw the bin bag mountain and me at the door, accompanied by Constable Sighs-a-Lot.

What on earth is this? she squealed, jabbing at the bags. Emma, youre mad! These are my things!

Exactly, I folded my arms. Your things. Pick them up and off you go. Hotel is closed.

She made a run for the hallway, but the constable blocked her.

Hold on, miss. Do you actually live here? Got your name on the register?

I Im his sister! Were staying over! She turned on me, face purple with rage-patches. Emma, what are you doing, you madwoman? Wheres Nigel? Ill call him, just you wait!

Go ahead. He wont answer. Hes busy telling your children why Mummys such a little entrepreneur.

Donna dialled, stabbed redial, got the cold shoulder each time. Nigel, it seemed, had finally found his backbone. Or at least twigged that in a divorce, hed be lucky to get the toaster.

You cant do this! she shrieked, hurling down a shoe box. Weve got nowhere to go! What about my children?!

Dont lie, I said, stepping closer, locking eyes. Say hi to Caroline. Ask her if your tenants want to extend a few more months, or if youll need to move in yourself.

Donna froze, fish-mouthed. The wind properly taken out of her sails.

How did you?

You should lock your phone, business genius. You lived off my food, trashed my flat, let your own out to save for a new car? Bravo. But now, listen up.

I dropped my voice; in the stairwell, every word sounded like the clang of Big Ben.

You take your bags, and you get gone. If I see you or your brood anywhere near my place, Im notifying HMRC and the police. Youre letting property off the bookstax dodging. Theyll be fascinated. And Ill report a theft too. Did you know I lost a gold ring? Imagine if the police found it in these bags

The ring was safe in my jewellery boxbut Donna didnt know that. She turned ghost-grey, foundation and all.

Youre vile, Emma, she spat. God will judge you.

Hes busyIm available. And so is my flat. Clear out.

She fumbled with her phone, called a taxi with trembling hands. The constable watched, stifling a yawn, just happy no paperwork was needed.

As the lift doors closed on Donna, her suitcases, and shattered schemes, I turned to the officer.

Thanks for your help.

Any time, love. Best get yourself a decent lock.

Back indoors, I snapped the shiny new deadbolt shut. The fresh smell of Dettol (cleaners had already blitzed the kitchen and moved onto the bedroom) greeted me.

Nigel returned two hours later, solo. Hed handed off the kids and Donna at the kerb while she was loading up her Uber. He crept in, as if the lounge might explode.

Emma shes gone.

I know.

She was yelling all sorts about you

I’ve no time for the howling of rats leaving a sinking ship.

I sipped strong, fresh coffee from my favourite unchipped mug. The lipstick wall art had vanished; my fridge contained only my groceries.

Did you know about the rental? I asked, not looking up.

No! Swear down, Emma! If Id known

Youd have kept your mouth shut, I concluded. Pay attention, Nigel. That was your familys last ever stunt. Next time, your bags will be out there with theirs. Understood?

He nodded, nervous as a mouse in a cattery. He knew I wasnt bluffing.

I took another sip of coffee.
Perfect.
Hot, strong and, above all else, enjoyed in the kind of golden, blissful silence you only get in your very own flat.
My crown isnt slipping.
It fits like it was made for me.