“We’ll Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Freeloading In-Laws and Changed the Locks The intercom didn’t simply ring—it wailed for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The one day I’d planned to catch up on sleep after closing the quarter’s accounts, not entertain guests. On the screen: my husband’s sister, looking ready to storm the Bastille, three wild-haired kids huddled behind her. “Igor!” I barked without picking up. “Your family. Deal with it.” He shuffled out in inside-out shorts, knowing from my tone that my patience with his clan had reached bedrock. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood in the hall, arms crossed. My flat, my rules. This three-bed in central London was bought with blood, sweat, and a soul-sucking mortgage, years before I even met Igor—having strangers under my roof was the last thing I wanted. The door burst open, and in waltzed the caravan. Svetlana—sorry, let’s make her Susan—laden with bags, didn’t bother to say hello. She nudged past me like I was a sideboard. “Thank God, we made it!” she panted, dumping her bags onto my Italian tile. “Come on, put the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Susan,” I said, voice calm; Igor’s shoulders hunched. “Mind telling me what’s going on?” “What, Igor didn’t say?” She blinked all innocence. “We’ve got building works! Replacing pipes, tearing up floors, dust everywhere. Impossible to live there. We’ll just stay here a week. You’ve loads of space, don’t you?” I looked at my husband. He stared at the ceiling, bracing for execution. “A week,” I said coolly. “And I mean seven days. You sort your own food. The kids don’t run riot or touch my office. Silence after ten.” Susan rolled her eyes. “Bit strict, aren’t you, Anna? Warder or what? Fine, deal. Where do we sleep? Hopefully not on the floor?” Hell began. A “week” stretched to two. Then three. My pristine, designer apartment turned into a pigsty: muddy shoes piled in the hall, chaos in the kitchen—greasy stains on the counters, crumbs, sticky puddles. Susan ruled the place like she owned it. “Anna, your fridge is empty!” she declared one evening, eyeing the shelves. “The kids need yoghurts, and how about beef for me and Igor? You earn well, you could treat your in-laws.” “You have a card and shops. Knock yourself out. Deliveries are 24/7,” I replied, unmoved. “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. But the final straw came when I got home early and caught the kids in my bedroom: oldest bouncing on my expensive mattress, youngest drawing on the wall. With. My. Limited-edition. Lipstick. “Out!” I roared—kids scattered. Susan barely flinched at the redecorated wall and ruined lipstick. “They’re kids! It’ll wash off. Lipstick’s just coloured fat. You’ll buy another one. Oh, by the way—our builders are dragging it out, so we’ll stay until summer! You two must be bored here alone, anyway!” Igor hovered, silent. Useless. I fled to the bathroom before I committed a crime. That night, Susan left her phone on the kitchen table. A notification flashed up: “Susan, next month’s rent received. Tenants love the place—can they extend until August?” Then, “£800 received.” Click. There was no building work. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her circus into mine, getting free food, bills, and a passive income. Genius. On my dime. I snapped a photo of the message. For once, my hands were steady. “Igor, kitchen. Now.” I showed him the photo. He went white. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” “Mistake is that you haven’t kicked them out yet,” I said coldly. “Your move: have them gone by noon tomorrow, or you can all go. You, your mother, Susan, the lot.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can swing it.” The next morning Susan blithely announced she was “popping out for some lovely boots” (presumably with her rental money), leaving the kids with Igor. “Take the kids to the park. For a long time,” I told him. He questioned, I insisted. “I’m getting rid of some parasites.” Once they’d gone, I called a locksmith. And then the local bobby. Game over—clear-out begins. When Igor returned, the locks were changed and their stuff—crammed in five giant bin bags—was on the landing. By the time Susan waltzed back, loaded with shopping, I waited at the door with the constable. She shrieked, raged, tried to get past—“We have nowhere to live! I’ve got children!”—but the officer blocked her. She threatened to call Igor. I told her to ring. No answer. “Where’s your proof of residence?” the copper asked. “You don’t live here. Time to collect your things.” “Oh, and say hi to Marina,” I added. “Hope your tenants extend until August—otherwise, you’ll have to turf them out.” Susan paled. I continued, each word like a whip crack: “Take your bags and go. So help me, if I see you or your kids anywhere near my street again, I’ll call the tax man—undeclared rental income is a crime. And I’ll report a stolen ring. The police might find it in your bags.” The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know that. She quivered with rage. “You’re vile, Anna. God will judge you.” “God’s busy. And now, so am I—with my flat, finally all to myself.” When the lift doors closed on Susan, her shopping, and her busted little scheme, I felt only relief. Later, Igor came home, childless, guilt-ridden. “She screamed a lot,” he muttered. “I don’t care what rats shriek as they’re thrown off a ship,” I replied, sipping fresh coffee in silence, my kitchen spotless, fridge full of food I’d actually bought. “Did you know about the rental?” I asked. “No! Honestly, I didn’t!” “If you had, would you have told me?” He didn’t answer. “One more stunt from your family, and your suitcase will be next to theirs,” I finished. He nodded, nervously. He knew I wasn’t kidding. I took another sip. The coffee was perfect: hot, strong, and best of all, drunk in the peace and quiet of my own, reclaimed home. Long live the queen—crown fits just fine.

Author Emily TaylorReading 11 minViews 2

Well stay here till summer!: How I sent my husbands brazen relatives packing and changed the locks.

The buzzer didnt just ringit howled for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven oclock in the morning, Saturday. The one day Id planned to sleep in after finishing up the quarterly accounts, not to entertain. On the screen appeared the face of my sister-in-law. Emily, my husband Davids sister, looked on the verge of storming Buckingham Palace, three tousled heads bobbing in the background.

David! I barked, not picking up the receiver. Your family. Handle it.

My husband shuffled out of the bedroom, pulling his shorts on backwards. He knew my tone heralded troubleId reached a new low in patience for his lot. While he muttered something into the intercom, I was already standing in the hallway, arms folded. My flat, my rules. Id bought this spacious three-bedroom in the heart of London two years before we married, paying off every penny of the mortgage, and the last thing I wanted was uninvited guests.

The front door swung open, and my perfectly kept corridor, scented with luxury diffuser, was instantly invaded. Emily swept in, laden with bags, didnt so much as offer a greetingshe just bumped me aside with her hip as if I were an inconvenient side table.

Oh, thank heavens, weve made it! she exclaimed, dropping her bags right onto my expensive Italian tiles. Lucy, why are you rooted in the doorway? Put the kettle on, the children are starving after the journey.

Emily, I said, my voice steady but coldso much so that David flinched. Whats going on?

David didnt tell you? she widened her eyes, feigning innocence. Weve got builders in! Major workspipes, floors up, the lot. Its impossible to live there, dust everywhere. Well camp out here for a week. Surely youre not short of space in this place? All these rooms sitting empty.

I looked at David, who suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. He could already sense thered be hell to pay that evening.

David?

Lucy, really, he pleaded. Shes my sister. Where are they meant to go, a building site? Just a week.

A week, I recited. Exactly seven days. Foods your responsibility. No dashing about the flat, no sticky hands on my walls, no one within a yard of my study. Silence after ten.

Emily scoffed, rolling her eyes. Oh honestly, Lucy. Youre like a warder. All right, fine. Where are we sleepingdont say the floor?

That was the start of chaos.

A week stretched to two, then three. The flat I had painstakingly designed with an interior decorator was turning into a pigsty. The hallway was a mountain of dirty shoes, forever tripping me up. The kitchen was a disastergrease stains on my stone counters, crumbs, sticky puddles. Emily acted more like a lady of the manor, expecting us to be her staff.

Lucy, whys there nothing in the fridge? she announced one night, glancing at the bare shelves. The children need yoghurts, and David and I could do with some proper meat. You do well for yourself, surely you could look after your family better.

Youve got a debit cardand shops, I said without glancing up from my laptop. Off you go. Tesco delivers 24 hours.

Tight-fisted, she muttered, slamming the fridge door so hard the bottles clinked. Cant take it with you, you know.

But that wasnt the last straw. Coming home early from work one day, I found my nephews in my bedroom. The elder was bouncing on my orthopaedic mattressworth as much as a small carwhile the little one the little one was colouring on my wall. With my lipstick. Tom Ford. Limited edition.

Out! I roared. The children scattered.

Emily stormed in at the noise. On seeing the vandalised wallpaper and broken lipstick, she simply threw up her hands: Why are you yelling? Theyre just children, for heavens sake! Youll get the marks off. As for your lipstickhonestly, its just a bit of grease. Buy another, you wont go hungry. By the waythe building works dragging on. Got a right dodgy crew. Well have to stay till summer. Its not as if you two dont get lonelybit of fun, eh!

David said nothing. Spineless.

I said nothing either. I just left for the bathroom before I committed a violent act.

That evening, Emily left her phone on the kitchen table before her shower. The screen lit up with a message. I dont make a habit of reading other peoples texts, but the notification was plain for all to see. From Mary Lettings:

Emily, sent next months payment over. Tenants are happy, asking if they can stay till August?

Seconds later, a bank message: Balance credited: £800.

Something clicked. Suddenly it all made sense. There was no renovation. The impudent couch-surfer had let her own place out short-term to pocket easy cashand moved herself and her brood in with us to save on bills, food, and turn a profit. Genius, if youve no shame.

I took a photo of her phones screen. My hands didnt shake. If anything, I felt a cold, hard calm.

David, come into the kitchen, I called.

He glanced at the image and went red, then pale.

Lucy, maybe its a misunderstanding?

The mistake, I replied evenly, is that you havent thrown them out yet. So heres how it is. Either theyre gone by tomorrow lunch, or youre gone too. With your entire circus troupe.

But where will they go?

I dont care. Under Waterloo Bridge for all I care. Or the Ritz, if they can afford it.

The next morning, Emily strode off to Oxford Street, apparently to look at these gorgeous boots (no doubt paid for with her letting profits). Left the children with David, who took a day off.

I waited for the door to close behind her.

David, take the children. Long walk in the park.

Why?

Because today we are fumigating for pests.

When theyd gone, I got on the phone. First callemergency locksmith. Next, local police.

No more misplaced hospitality. Time for action.

Lucy, maybe its a mistake? Davids voice from yesterday echoed in my head as the locksmith worked, replacing the lock cylinder.

No mistakes. Just ruthless practicality.

The locksmitha big Yorkshireman with a tattoo on his forearmnodded approvingly at my front door. Solid door, this. Serious lock too. Take a battering ram to get in here now.

Thats exactly what I want. Reliability.

I transferred him as much as it would cost for a decent restaurant meal, but my peace of mind was worth every penny. Then I turned to the packing. No sentimentality. Heavy-duty black bin bagsstuffed with everything Emilysher bras, childrens tights, toys scattered everywhere.

Her cosmetics, which had overtaken my entire bathroom shelf, swept into a bag with one motion.

In less than an hour, a heap of five bursting black bags and two forlorn suitcases clogged the landing.

By the time the lift clanged open with a uniformed constable, I was at the door, documents on hand.

Good day, officer, I greeted, offering my deed and passport. Im the sole owner and resident. In a moment, people will attempt to force entryno right to do so. Please record any unlawful intrusion.

The constable, a young man with the look of someone already tired of life, flicked through my papers.

Relatives?

Former, I smirked. Family disputeboiling over, you know.

An hour passed. Emily returned, arms jangling with Selfridges bags, beaming. Her smile vanished at the sight of black bag mountain and me at the door with a policeman.

Whats all this? she screeched, jabbing at the bags. Lucy, youve lost your mind! These are my things!

Exactly, I said, arms folded. Take themand go. Hotels closed.

She tried darting past, but the constable barred her way.

Madam, do you live here? Registered resident?

IIm his sister! Were guests! she turned red. You cant do this, you cow! Wheres David? Im ringing himhell sort you out!

Feel free, I said, but he wont answer. Hes busy explaining to his children just how enterprising their mother has been.

Several unanswered calls later, Emily began to realise. Either David had finally grown a backboneor just feared a divorce, with nothing to his name.

Youve no right! shrieked Emily, flinging a shoe bag. The works arent done! The childrenwhere are we meant to go?

Stop lying, I stepped closer, eyes locked. Say hello to Mary. And ask if the tenants will stay through August, or if youll have to chuck them out and sleep in your own bed.

Emily gaped, deflating like a pricked balloon.

How did you?

Ought to lock your phone, darling entrepreneur. A month living on my dime, eating my food, trashing my home, while letting your own flat to finance the next car? Clever. But now listen

I dropped my voice, so my words cracked through the hallway:

You take your bags and leave. If I see you, or your children, within a mile of my property, Ill report your untaxed rental income. Inland Revenue will be fascinated. And also theftmy gold ring is missing. Guess what, itll be found in one of these bags if police give them a once-over.

The ring was, of course, safe in my own box. Emily didnt know that. Her face paled until her foundation looked like a mask.

Youre a bitch, Lucy, she hissed. God will judge you.

Im sure Hes got plenty else to do. I am, however, freeand so is my flat.

Trembling, she dragged her bags, phone fumbling to order a cab, while the constable watched on, faintly amused that this wouldnt require paperwork.

As the lift doors shut, taking Emily and her baggageand her little side-businessaway, I turned to the constable.

Thank you for your help.

My pleasure. Next time, just get a good lock.

I closed the door. That new lock gave a satisfying, assured click. The scent of bleach reached methe cleaners had moved from kitchen to bedroom.

David returned two hours later. Alone. Hed handed the children over to Emily as she clambered into the taxi. He entered furtively, as if expecting traps.

Lucyshes gone.

I know.

She was screaming all sorts about you

I really dont care what rats squeal about when theyre driven from a ship.

I sat in my kitchen, sipping fresh coffee from my favourite, now-undamaged, mug. The wall was clear of lipstick drawings; the fridge held only my food.

Did you know about the sub-letting? I asked, without looking at him.

No! Honestly, Lucy! If Id known

If youd known, youd have said nothing, I cut in. Pay attention, David: this was your familys last chance. Next escapade like that, your bags will be stacked with theirs. Understand?

He nodded, quickly, fearfully. He knew I meant it.

I took another sip of coffee. It was perfect. Hot, strong, and most importantly, enjoyed in absolute silence in my own home.

My crown? Never felt a thing. Fits like a glove.

Someone Else’s Bride Valery was in high demand. He never advertised in newspapers or on TV, but his name and phone number were passed around by word of mouth—the grapevine did all the work. Need a host for a concert? No problem! Birthday party or wedding? Excellent! He’d even once presided over a kindergarten graduation, winning the hearts of both the children and their mums. It all began simply enough. A close mate got married, but the emcee they’d booked in advance didn’t show up—turns out he’d gone on a bender. With no time to find anyone else, Valery grabbed the microphone. At school he’d taken part in amateur dramatics, joined the school theatre club, and at university he was always a star of Open Mic Night and student comedy contests. Impromptu hosting suited him, and right there, in the function hall, two people asked if he could run their events as well. After graduating, Valery got a job at one of the city’s research institutions earning next to nothing. His first fees as an entertainer inspired him—he took on every event, enjoying not only the financial boost but also a great sense of satisfaction. Soon his earnings from hosting outstripped his research salary by nearly tenfold. After a year, Valery took the plunge: he left the institute, used his savings to buy quality equipment, registered as self-employed, and officially went into show business. He started taking singing lessons, too—he already had a voice and an ear for music. Soon he was a singing host, performing as a lounge singer three nights a week at a posh restaurant. Now, approaching 30, Valery was good-looking, fairly well off, and had built a reputation as a solid singer, DJ, and top-notch host who could save any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him; any girl he fancied was up for it. But his friends were settling down and having kids, and gradually Valery began to yearn for quiet, family happiness. Problem was, there was nobody he wanted it with! The easy girls were fine for a fling, but he longed for something once and for all, for life. “You need to meet someone young, raise her ‘just right,’ and then marry her when she turns 18. That’s the ideal wife right there!” he half-joked. He started taking on bookings for school proms, hoping to spot his future partner. But modern girls disappointed him—they weren’t what he’d imagined. Still, Valery wasn’t discouraged. He kept an eye on the young ones, as he jokingly put it, “hunting rare game.” That’s when fate decided to have a laugh at my cousin’s expense. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang up, said she’d got his details from friends: “We need a host for a wedding. Are you free June 17th? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They met. And right then, according to Valery, he understood the saying “the ground slipped from under my feet.” The woman, who introduced herself as Christina, was dazzling—he’d never seen anyone quite like her up close. She was articulate, intelligent, all business, listed exactly what was needed. Valery found himself unable to look away. Someone was very lucky indeed—not only was she beautiful, she was obviously clever too. A rare combination! At first glance she seemed around 25, maybe a little older. But in conversation she mentioned she’d been in the Young Socialists, so she had to be at least 40! They sorted out all the details, came to an agreement, and drew up a contract, though Christina protested: “No need, I trust you—you come highly recommended!” Valery always worked with contracts, making sure both he and his clients stuck rigidly to the terms. He insisted: “I need to file paperwork for tax—can’t have any problems.” In truth, he just wanted physical proof that Christina really existed, that this wasn’t a dream. Her phone pinged—a message. “Oh, my fiancé’s here to pick me up. Do you need a lift?” Valery said no but followed her out to the car park. He always did this if the couple arrived separately, to size up how they acted around each other. But this time, jealousy rather than curiosity drove him. The groom surprised him—he’d pictured a man of about forty, to match the bride. But out of the car bounced a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christina, everything alright?” She smiled, as if to say, “Why wouldn’t it be?” and got into the car. The groom turned to Valery: “You’re the one hosting our wedding? Great, Slava’s told me you’re the best,” he said, giving Valery a handshake. “Sorry, forgot to introduce myself—Christina will scold me later. I’m Robert, the groom.” More than anything, Valery wanted to punch this “Robert, the groom,” and wipe that smug smile off his face, but instead he just shook his hand. “Valery. Nice to meet you.” From that moment, Valery lost all peace and sleep. He obsessed over any excuse to call Christina, to hear her voice, to meet her again. The wedding day loomed closer and Valery thought he was losing his mind. His one confidant needled him: “Whatever happened to the schoolgirls you were going to raise into ideal wives?” Valery just waved him off: “Forget that. Christina’s perfect—she’s all I want now!” “Then tell her,” his friend shrugged, but got a sharp reply: “Are you mad? She’s getting married, so she must love him. What would she want with me and my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would drop by, beaming: “Christina asked me to drop this off for you…” Valery hated him in those moments, barely able to hold back a retort. He even considered backing out of the wedding, reputation be damned—but that would mean never seeing Christina again. He caved in cowardly fear. Two days before the wedding, Christina dropped round to Valery’s flat—she said, “just to polish the script, make sure everything’s perfect.” His office was undergoing renovations, so their meeting moved to his home. They chatted about nothing important, laughed, both on top form. Script done, Valery poured a glass of prosecco for a toast. “To the perfect wedding.” Christina laughed: “Why not!” She was radiant, and Valery, buoyed by bubbles, kissed her. And, to his shock, she kissed him back. The world turned upside down. Valery woke with a start. He looked around—had he imagined the best night of his life? No sight of Christina, but her perfume lingered on a pillow. So it was real… In turmoil, he called her. “Hey…” She answered brightly: “Hi! How are you? Sorry I ducked out early, but you know how it is—the wedding’s tomorrow!” “So…the wedding’s still on?” he croaked. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s grand!” Was she really so cynical? How could she look her groom in the eye after last night? Valery was torn—should he ruin the wedding? Did he even want such a heartless woman? Answer: Yes. Any form of her. Next day, he arrived at the venue early. The decorators were finishing up, throwing him flirty glances. Then— He couldn’t believe it—Christina came up to him. “Hi. I ran off straight after the ceremony—just wanted to see you,” she flashed a dazzling smile. “You alright, Valery?” “I don’t get it,” he stammered. “So, the ceremony’s over? Then you legged it?” “Yeah, silly. Why ride around with the kids when I could spend time with you? Or aren’t you happy to see me?” “Wait, what kids? Aren’t you the bride?” Christina stared at him for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. It was a pure, joyful sound, and Valery couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter Kiera is the bride—she’s at university in Leeds, just flew in yesterday,” she stopped laughing, “Did you think I was the bride? And that I’d sleep around two nights before my wedding? Charming.” Only then did it dawn on Valery—Christina never once said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Robert never called her “Kiera,” only “Christina” and always formally. How had he not noticed? He felt foolish… and then he finally asked the real question: “And you? Are you… free?” She nodded. He blurted out: “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was stunning, the host outdid himself, the guests were thrilled. The young couple thanked Valery: “Thank you so much! We’ve no idea how to repay you for such an amazing evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” said Christina, joining them. “You two go on—the limo’s waiting. I’ll keep an eye on things here.” The news—Valery marrying a woman nine years his senior—spread quickly among the family. People were wary at first, but after meeting the bride everyone agreed: “How could you not fall for someone like that?” Kiera and Christina both gave birth within a fortnight of each other.

“We’re Staying Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Entitled Family, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Own Home The intercom didn’t just ring—it screeched, desperate for attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 AM on a Saturday, my one chance to sleep in after slogging through the quarterly report—not exactly the best time for uninvited visitors. The screen lit up with my sister-in-law’s face. Svetlana—now just “Sue,” my husband’s sister—looked ready to storm the Tower of London, three wild-haired children crowding behind her. “Ian!” I bellowed, ignoring the receiver. “Your family’s here. You deal with them.” Ian stumbled out of our bedroom, fumbling his shorts on backwards. He knew by my tone there was no loyalty left in reserve for his relatives. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood, arms folded, making it clear this was my flat—my rules. I’d bought and paid off this three-bed in Central London years before saying “I do,” and the last thing I wanted was a house full of freeloaders. The door flung open and in tumbled the whole circus. Sue, burdened with bags, didn’t even greet me—she just shoved past, as if I were a coat-stand. “Oh praise the Lord, we’ve made it!” she sighed, dumping her luggage on my expensive Italian tiled floor. “Alice, why are you blocking the way? Put the kettle on. The kids are starving after the journey.” “Sue,” I said coolly. Ian hunched his shoulders, knowing he’d meet the gallows later. “What’s going on?” “She didn’t tell you?” Sue went full ‘innocent victim’ mode. “Our place needs major work—pipes, new floors, the lot. Can’t live in all that dust. We’ll just crash here for a week. And you’ve got all this space we wouldn’t want to go unused.” I shot Ian a look. He studied the ceiling. Death row awaited. “Ian?” “It’s only for a week, Alice,” he bleated. “Where else can they go? Just a week.” “One week,” I declared. “Seven days, exactly. You buy your own food. The kids don’t run wild, no sticky fingers on the walls, no one comes near my office. And silence after ten.” Sue rolled her eyes, scoffing, “Oh, aren’t you the prison warden! Fine, deal. Where are we sleeping? Not on the floor, I hope?” That was the start of hell. “One week” turned into two. Then three. My pristine, designer-kissed flat became a wreck. The entryway was a mountain of filthy shoes. The kitchen—a disaster of greasy countertops, crumbs, and mysterious puddles. Sue acted like lady of the manor, treating me like one of her maids. “Alice, why’s the fridge empty?” she asked one evening, peering at the bare shelves. “Kids need yogurts. As for us, Ian would like a proper steak. You’re the high earner here. You could look after family.” “You’ve got a card and a phone. Use them,” I replied without looking up. “There’s 24-hour delivery.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming my fridge so hard the bottles clattered. “Can’t take it with you when you’re gone, remember.” But the final straw wasn’t even that. Coming home early one night, I found my nephews in my bedroom. The eldest was jumping on my orthopaedic mattress—pricey as a round-the-world ticket—and his sister was drawing on the wall. With my Tom Ford lipstick. Limited edition. “Out!” I roared, sending them scattering. Sue came running at the noise, took in the graffiti and broken lipstick, and just waved it off. “Oh, come on! They’re just kids! It’ll wash off. And your lipstick’s just a chunk of dyed fat, Alice—you’ll buy another. By the way, our builders are hopeless drunks. Looks like we’ll be staying till summer. It’s not like you two get lonely here—think of the fun!” Ian just stood there. Spineless. I said nothing. I walked to the bathroom, resisting the urge to become a tabloid headline. That night, Sue went for a shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. The screen lit up with a message I couldn’t help but read—in big bold letters: a transfer from “Marina Rentals” had landed. “Sue, I’ve sent next month’s rent. Tenants are thrilled—want to extend through August?” Followed by a bank notification: “+£800 received.” Everything clicked. There was no renovation. My husband’s dear sister had let out her own flat for a tidy profit, came to live in comfort and luxury at my expense, and was pocketing passive income on the side. I snapped a photo of her phone with mine. My hands were steady—calm, cold, clear. “Ian, come to the kitchen,” I called. He saw the photo, paled, and looked back at me. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” he said. “No, Ian—the mistake is you not throwing them out,” I said evenly. “You have a choice. By tomorrow lunchtime, either they’re all gone—or you move out with them. You, your mum, your sister, and the whole travelling show.” “But where—?” “I don’t care. Under Tower Bridge for all I mind.” Sue waltzed out bright and early, shopping bags in hand, leaving Ian with the kids. Once she was gone, I said, “Ian, take the kids out. To the park. All day.” “Why?” “Because this flat’s about to get a deep clean—from parasites.” Once they were gone, I called a locksmith and the police station. Hospitality was over. It was time for a purge. The locksmith—a bear of a man with a forearm tattoo—installed a monstrous lock. “Good door,” he said. “But this lock’s a beast. No way in without power tools.” “Exactly what I want,” I replied. I filled black rubbish bags—Sue’s bras, kid’s tights, toys. Tossed her cosmetics in without a thought. After forty minutes, five bulging sacks stood in the hallway, two battered suitcases by their side. When the police officer arrived, pen hovering, I greeted him with my ownership documents. “They’re relatives?” he asked. “Ex-relatives,” I said with a smirk. “Let’s just say the family drama’s reached its climax.” Sue finally arrived. Glowing, new shoes poking out of a designer bag—her face fell when she saw the pile and me beside the officer. “What’s this?” she shrieked. “Alice, have you gone mad? These are my things!” “Correct. Take them. The hotel is closed.” She tried to barge past, but the officer blocked her way. “Do you live here? Any paperwork?” “I’m his sister! We’re just staying—” She spun to me, cheeks blazing. “Where’s Ian? He’ll fix you!” “Go ahead—call him.” But he didn’t answer. For once, he’d grown a spine, or maybe just feared the divorce and asset split. “You’ve no right!” Sue shrieked, a shoebox tumbling from her shopping bag. “We’re having work done! We’ve nowhere to go! I’ve got kids!” “Liar,” I snapped. “Say hi to Marina. Ask her if your tenants will extend the lease, or whether you’ll have to turf them out.” Her mouth dropped. Air leaked from her like a punctured balloon. “How did you…?” “Should lock your phone, businesswoman. You lived for free. Ate my food. Wrecked my home while letting your place out to save for a car? Genius. But listen: Take your stuff and leave. If I see you, or your precious children, within a mile of my home, I’ll call HMRC. Unregistered subletting—tax fraud will interest them. Oh, and I’ll report you for theft—my gold ring’s gone missing. Guess where the police might find it?” The ring was in my safe, of course, but Sue looked set to collapse. “You’re vile, Alice,” she spat. “God will judge you.” “God’s busy,” I said, “but I have all day. And my home’s finally free.” She clutched her bags, dialing Ubers with trembling fingers as the police officer idly watched. When the lift doors hid her, I turned to him. “Thank you for your service.” “Best to stick with good locks,” he grinned. I turned, shut my door, and locked it with a satisfying click. The smell of bleach said the cleaners had been thorough. Ian came back alone, eyes wide, cautious. “Alice…she’s gone.” “I know.” “She said awful things about you—” “I don’t care what rats scream as the ship goes down.” I sat at my kitchen table, sipped espresso from my favourite cup. No more lipstick art on the walls. Fresh food in my fridge—just for me. “Did you know about the rental?” I asked without looking up. “No, honest. If I had—” “If you had, you’d have kept quiet,” I cut in. “Listen closely, Ian. This was your family’s last free ride. One more stunt, and your bags will join theirs. Got it?” He nodded, fast, terrified. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. I took another sip. It was perfect—hot, strong, and finally, blessedly, enjoyed in the total peace of my own home. No crown too heavy here—it fit just right.