“I Didn’t Invite Any Visitors! — The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke. — I Didn’t Ask You to Come!”

Author Emily TaylorReading 11 minViews 1

“I never invited any guests!” The daughter-in-laws voice broke like a thread in a storm. “I never asked for you to come!”

Matthew stood in the kitchen, whisking pasta sauce with dreamlike determination. In one hand, a battered whisk glimmered faintly beneath the kitchen lamp; in the other, he clutched an open cookery book, the pages wilting as if humid summer air had seeped in from another world.

The aroma of roasted garlic, simmering tomatoes and torn basil leaves drifted through the flat, winding around the drifting scent of beeswax candles that Jane had arranged about the sitting room like sentinels.

“I think its working,” he murmured, glancing at his wife, who was slicing cheddar for a salad. “At least, it hasnt turned to glue this time.”

Jane smiled, a gentle warmth in her blue eyes reflecting the strange, golden haze of the evening. Her ash blonde hair was bundled thoughtlessly atop her head, and the light from the chandelier painted her features with an otherworldly glow.

“Youre brilliant, you know.” Jane approached, arms circling his waist with a weightless, cloud-like hug. “It smells just like that trattoria we found in Bath remember?”

“Thats the idea.” He drew closer as if drifting on a tide. “Picture it stillness, gentle music, candlelit dinner No calls, no uninvited guests. Just us.”

This notion of celebrating her birthday in seclusion belonged to them both. After endless family visits and relentless hullabaloo, they hungered for an evening devoted only to one another, somewhere on the edge of waking and dreaming.

Jane had already bought her favourite red, and Matthew had left work early to prepare supper by his own hand. When everything was nearly readyappetisers carefully ferried to the sitting roomJane found a mellow tune and switched it on, as though to lull the world outside to sleep.

“Happy birthday, darling,” Matthew raised his glass, voice echoing strange and quiet in the candlelit hush. “May this year bring you nothing but happiness and calm.”

“Thank you, dearest.” Their glasses chimed with a resonance like church bells ringing through mist.

The wine tasted earthy and ancient. Jane closed her eyes, wrapping herself in the moment. This was the evening shed waited weeks for.

Just then, a sudden, shrill buzz tore through the hallwaya sound as alien as a crow call in dreamland. Matthews brow furrowed, and the peace warped like glass under water.

“Who could that be? Were not expecting anyone.”

Jane shrugged, uneasy. Something cold, snake-like, slid over her skina warning iced in fog. Matthew went to the intercom.

“Hello?” His voice wavered.

The reply rang out, cheerful and familiar, impossibly loud.

“Matty! Its us! Buzz us in, we brought goodies! Were here to wish Jane a happy birthday!”

Matthews jaw hung slack. He sent Jane a pleading look.

“Mum?” he whispered, breathless. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“What do you think? Ive come to celebrate with my lovely daughter-in-law! Let us inthe wind bites tonight!”

Wordlessly, Matthew pressed the unlock button. Heavy, uncomfortable silence wrapped the flat.

“Your mum? Now?” Janes voice wobbled, like a ribbon caught in wind.

“Sorry I didnt know She said shed just ring”

Before the words could cool, a loud, insistent knocking shook the airno greeting, just the staccato certainty of someone belonging.

Matthew took a deep, dream-heavy breath and opened the door. On the threshold stood Dorothy Harris, his mothera solid woman with cropped silvery hair and lips painted a defiant shade of brick red.

She was shrouded in an enormous paisley shawl, clutching a sweating Tupperware like a relic.

“At last! Wed have frozen to the pavement, like stray cats, if wed been kept out much longer!” She swept in without hesitation, peeling off her overcoat with a kind of proprietorial gusto.

Only now did Jane and Matthew notice the crowd clustered behind her. A tide of relatives flooded in: Uncle Colin, Dorothys bulky brother, bearing a crate of orange squash; his waif-thin wife, Aunt Linda, wielding a monstrous chocolate cake in a box she pressed before her like a shield; and finally their daughter Ruth, twenty and glued to her mobile, trailing two boisterous younger siblings who shrieked and fled down the hallway like fox-cubs in fog.

“Mum, what is all this?” Matthew managed.

“Now, now,” Dorothy busied herself hanging her coat across three pegs. “Were family! We wanted to surprise our precious Jane. Here you are, darling, homemade jellied beefMatthew loves it, you remember?”

Jane, hands numb, took the heavy container.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harris,” she managed quietly. “But we werent expecting visitors”

“Were not visitors! Were your lot!” Dorothys laugh rolled out like thunder over hills. She bustled into the sitting room. “How romanticlook at those candles!”

Meanwhile, Aunt Linda unloaded her cake onto the coffee table, pushing aside the vase of daffodils and their wine glasses with clinical efficiency.

“Jane! Happy birthday, love! A proper homemade Black Forestused to be a favourite when I was a girl. You must try it!”

Children dashed about the room, shrieking through invisible doorways. One nearly knocked a floor vase, and Jane rushed to steady it on instinct.

Her heart galloped with panic. Matthew, already sinking, tried to take charge.

“Since youre all here fine, please, sit down. Jane, shall we lay out some plates in the kitchen?”

But Dorothy had already taken over, as though orchestrating a séance.

“No need for that. Well be snug in here! Colin, push that table in a bit. Linda, fetch the plates. Ruth, put that phone down and help!”

Ruth didnt look up, simply slouched off in the general direction of the kitchen, phone aglow. The mystical mood of their quiet evening was shredded, piecemeal.

Within ten minutes, the table was heaped: jellied beef, pickled herring salad, potato salad with chopped pickle, marinated mushrooms and Aunt Lindas immense cake.

“So, birthday girl, tell ushows life?” Dorothy settled on the sofa, fixing Jane with an inspecting stare. “Still at the same job? Supervisor not giving you trouble, I hope?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Jane answered, poking her fork in the salad, wishing it might vanish like dew.

“Ruth, now, cant find work for love or money,” Dorothy pressed on, unheeding. “Studied and studied, and now sits about at home. Could you put the word in for her at your office, dear? Shes sharp, our Ruth. Just needs a foot in the door.”

Jane nodded mutely. Everything inside her clenched tight. Matthew hunched beside her, answering Uncle Colins questions about football with empty energy; he looked worn to a thread.

Matthews guilty glances said it allhe was trapped, powerless. The little ones, sugar-fuelled, darted round again.

Little Billy discovered Janes crystal animal collection atop the bookcasetrinkets shed gathered since she was a girl.

“Mum, look at these shiny things!” He waved, beaming.

“Careful, Billy, those are fragile!” Jane launched from her seat, but too late.

Billy tugged at a delicate glass swan. There was a bright, crystalline cracka tiny explosion. Shards scattered across the rug.

The silence that followed was funereal. Even the music had faded, leaving only the odd hiss of a guttering candle.

“Oh dearie me!” Aunt Linda gasped. “Billy, what did I tell you? Stop touching!”

“Dont get upset,” Dorothy waved her off. “Just a bit of glassit can be binned. He didnt mean it, bless him.”

Jane raised her gaze, slow as a shadow.

“That was my grandmothers,” she said. Her words rang slow and clear. “Shes long gone now.”

“Well, that cant be helped. God rest her soul, but the living matter more, dont they?” Dorothy was relentless. “Best not keep precious things out if youre hosting, my dear.”

That was the breaking point. Jane rose abruptly; her chair screeched as if in pain.

“But I never invited you here!” the words surged upward, her voice shivering out. “I didnt ask for guests! Matthew and I wanted to spend the evening alone! Its my own birthdaynot some family circus!”

Dreadful silence followed. Even the children halted, sensing a breach in the dreams fabric.

Uncle Colin stared at his plate, Aunt Lindas mouth hung open, Dorothy flushed crimson.

“Oh, is that so?” Dorothys voice cut, icy enough to slice. “Weve come to wish you well, brought gifts, set the tableand now were intruders? Am I not allowed in my own sons home?”

“Enough, Mum,” Matthew stood. His patience, a ghost, had run out. “Jane is right. This was meant for usjust us. You had no right to burst in, dragging half of Yorkshire with you!”

“Burst in?” Dorothy shrilled. “I carried you, Matthew! I gave my life for you! And now, just because you have a wife, your mums not welcome?”

“Its just respect, Mum. Respect for our privacy and our plans!”

Thunder rolled, futile words bounced from wall to wall. Dorothy accused, Matthew pleaded; relatives hunched into themselves.

Jane could take no more. She slipped from the sitting room, mute as a mist, letting the argument churn behind the walls.

Time seemed to fold inten minutes, then perhaps twenty. The voices faded, replaced by dull, awkward hush.

Soon she heard movements, shuffled feet, then the door closingthe finality as sharp as winter air.

The bedroom door eased open. Matthew stood there, looking utterly spent, as if rained on in some distant city.

“Theyve gone,” he murmured. “Jane, I shouldve just unplugged the intercom”

“But you didnt,” her voice was dull, like lead. “You shouldve stopped her.”

“Shes my mother she meant well”

“For whom?” Jane turned, fire flickering in her eyes. “For herself? To play the good hostess and matron? Shes ruined everything, Matthew!”

“What was I supposed to do? Throw them out? Shed have stormed the streets”

“And this wasnt a scene?” Jane paced, fiery. “She always decides for uswhat we eat, where we go, how we live, and you always yield”

Jane stood at the window, staring below at the car park where Dorothy and the others milled round their car, shadows in headlamps.

Maybe the storm was over. But Jane knew betterit was only an intermission.

“I dont know if I can do this, Matthew,” she whispered. “I cant live afraid that your mother and her brigade are poised to break in with cakes and advice, any day, any time.”

“Ill talk to her. Really talk. Make her understandwe cant go on”

“Youve said that dozens of times. It never makes a difference.”

The night theyd dreamed up, their private idyll, never began. It ended before it could become real.

“Sorry,” Matthew said quietly, once more. “Happy birthday, my love.”

Jane closed her eyes. She was thirty-three, but felt as careworn as a wizened old woman.

“Shall we try to celebrate?” Matthews voice, faint with hope. “Theres plenty left untouched”

“No point,” Jane replied flatly. “Im exhausted. All I want is sleep.”

She left for the bathroom, desperate to wash away the entire evening, to sink into sleep and wake into a day unvisited by overbearing mothers and their retinues.

Dorothy, meanwhile, would bear her silent grudge, lost in the labyrinth of her own good intentions, never quite understanding how she had trespassed upon that fragile, sacred night.

“You Don’t Need to Sit at the Table – You’ll Be Serving Us!”: How Living with My Mother-in-Law Made Me Lose Myself Until I Finally Spoke Up I stood by the stove in the quiet morning kitchen—rumpled pyjamas, messy hair. The aroma of toast and strong coffee filled the air. My 7-year-old daughter sat on a stool, nose deep in her sketchbook, carefully drawing colourful swirls with felt-tip pens. “Are you making those diet toasts again?” came a voice behind me. I jumped. It was my mother-in-law, face of stone, her robe perfectly tied, hair in a tight bun, lips pursed. “Yesterday I had to eat whatever I could find!” she continued, snapping her tea towel on the table. “No soup, nothing decent. Can you make eggs properly? Like a normal person, not your… modern nonsense!” I turned off the hob and opened the fridge, a tight spiral of anger in my chest. But I swallowed it. Not in front of the child. Not in this home, where every inch reminded me: “You’re only here temporarily.” “It’ll be ready in a minute,” I forced out, turning away so she wouldn’t see my voice shaking. My daughter focused on her drawing, but watched her grandmother from the corner of her eye—quiet, tense, alert. “We’ll Stay with My Mum—for a Bit” Moving in with my mother-in-law sounded logical at the time. “It’s just for a little while—two months max. She lives close to work, and we’re waiting on the mortgage. She’s fine with it.” I hesitated—not out of conflict, but because I knew the truth: two grown women in one kitchen is a minefield. And my mother-in-law was someone with a compulsive need for order, control, and moral judgement. But there was little choice. Our old flat sold fast; the new one wasn’t ready. So the three of us moved into her two-bedroom flat. “Just temporarily.” Rules, Rules, and More Rules For the first few days, she was polite, even adding an extra chair for the child and treating us to pie. But by day three, the “house rules” appeared. “In my house, there’s order,” she declared at breakfast. “Everyone up by eight. Shoes only in the rack. Grocery shopping must be agreed. And keep the telly down—I’m very sensitive to noise.” My husband just smiled: “Mum, it’s only for a little while. We’ll manage.” I nodded silently. But the word “manage” started to sound like a sentence. Day by Day, I Disappeared A week passed. Then another. The rules grew stricter. She removed my daughter’s drawings from the table: “They’re in the way.” She took off the checked tablecloth I’d put on: “Impractical.” My cereal disappeared from the cupboard: “Old, probably off.” My shampoos found themselves relocated: “They’re cluttering up my place.” I felt more like a silent servant than a guest. My food was “wrong.” My habits, “unnecessary.” My child, “too noisy.” My husband kept saying, “Just put up with it—this is Mum’s house. She’s always been like this.” And bit by bit, I lost myself. Living by Someone Else’s Rules Every morning, I rose at six to claim the bathroom first, make porridge, get the child ready, and stay out of my mother-in-law’s firing line. Each evening I made two dinners: one for us, and one “done properly” for her. No onions. Then with onions. Then only in her pot. Then only in her pan. “I’m not asking much,” she’d say disapprovingly. “Just for things to be done properly.” The Day the Humiliation Went Public One morning, as I’d just finished washing my face and boiling the kettle, she breezed into the kitchen as if it was perfectly natural. “My friends are coming round, two o’clock. You’re at home so you’ll set the table—pickles, salad, a little something for tea. Simple.” “Erm… I didn’t know, and—” “You’ll shop. Here’s the list. It’s nothing complicated.” So, off I went to the shop. Bought everything—chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, biscuits… Came home and cooked nonstop. By two, the table was set, chicken roasted, salad fresh, pie golden. Enter three elderly ladies—prim, permed, and perfumed from another era. But I saw it instantly: I wasn’t part of the party—I was the waitstaff. “Come here, love—sit by us and serve,” my mother-in-law beamed. “To serve you?” I echoed. “So what? We’re old. It’s easy for you.” And there I was again: fetching, carrying, serving. “Pass the tea.” “More sugar.” “We’re out of salad.” “The chicken’s a bit dry,” one grumbled. “You’ve burnt the pie,” another added. I gritted my teeth. Smiled. Collected plates. Poured tea. No one asked if I wanted to sit. Or take a breath. “How wonderful, having a young lady about!” my mother-in-law crooned. “She keeps everything running!” And that was the moment something in me snapped. That Night, I Told the Truth When they left, I washed up, packed away leftovers, washed the tablecloth. I sat on the edge of the sofa, mug in hand, the night closing in. The child slept in a ball. My husband, glued to his phone. “Listen…” I began, quiet but firm, “I can’t go on like this.” He looked up, surprised. “We’re strangers here. I’m just here to serve, and you… do you see that?” He said nothing. “This isn’t a home. This is me, constantly adjusting, silenced. I’m not doing any more months like this. I’m sick of being convenient and invisible.” He nodded—slowly. “I get it… I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. We’ll look for a place. Any place. As long as it’s our own.” And we started searching that very night. Our Home—No Matter How Small The flat was tiny. The furniture was old. The floor squeaked. But the moment I stepped in, I felt light for the first time. Like I’d finally found my voice. “We made it,” my husband sighed, dropping our bags. My mother-in-law said nothing. Didn’t even try to stop us. I wasn’t sure if she was offended, or just realised she’d gone too far. A week passed. Mornings began with music. The child drew on the floor. My husband made coffee. And I smiled at it all. No stress. No rush. No more “just put up with it.” “Thank you,” he said one morning as he hugged me. “For speaking out.” I looked him in the eye: “Thank you for listening.” Life wasn’t perfect. But it was our home. With our rules. Our noise. Our life. And it was real. Would you have lasted “just for a bit”—or would you have walked out after the first week?

Strangers in Our Flat Katie was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside drifted the sound of the television, voices in the kitchen, and an unfamiliar smell. Behind her, Max nearly dropped his suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” Katie whispered, holding out her hand. “There’s someone in there.” On their favourite beige sofa sprawled two complete strangers. A man in tracksuit bottoms flicked through TV channels, while next to him, a plump woman sat knitting. The coffee table held mugs, plates with crumbs, various medicines. “Excuse me, who are you?” Katie’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, entirely unembarrassed. “Oh, you’re back,” the woman said, barely pausing her knitting. “We’re Linda’s relatives. She gave us the key, said the owners were away.” Max paled. “Linda who?” “Your mum,” the man finally stood up. “We’re from Yorkshire—here with Michael for some tests. She let us stay, said you wouldn’t mind.” Katie walked into the kitchen. At the stove stood a teenager, frying sausages. The fridge was full of someone else’s food. The table was stacked with dirty dishes. “And who are you?” she managed. “Michael,” the boy turned. “Isn’t it allowed? Grandma Linda said it was fine.” She returned to the hallway, where Max was reaching for his phone. “Mum, what on earth have you done?” His voice, quiet but furious. From the speaker came her mother-in-law’s cheery reply: “Maxie, you’re back? How was your trip? Listen, I gave the keys to Sue and Victor―they’re up in London with Michael for the doctor. Figured, well, your flat’s empty, why let it go to waste? It’s only for a week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why would I? You weren’t there! Just tell them I’m responsible and everything will be tidy.” Katie grabbed the phone. “Linda, are you serious? You let strangers into our home?” “Strangers? What strangers? Sue is my cousin! We shared a bed as kids.” “And what has that got to do with OUR flat?” “Oh, Katie, don’t make a fuss. They’re family. They’ll be no trouble. The boy’s not well, they needed help. Or are you really that cold?” Her husband took the phone back. “Mum, you’ll be here within the hour to collect them. All of them.” “But Maxie, they’re meant to stay till Thursday! Michael’s got appointments. They’d booked a hotel. I helped save them money…” “Mum. One hour. Or I call the police.” He hung up. Katie slumped on the ottoman, face in hands. Their suitcases were still packed. From the living room the telly blared; in the kitchen, sausages sizzled. Only two hours ago they’d been on the plane, dreaming of coming home. Now she was a guest in her own home. “We’ll pack up,” the woman from the living room appeared, apologetic. “Linda thought you wouldn’t mind. We’d have asked, but didn’t have your number. Linda offered, we just agreed. Planned a week for all the hospital things” Max stood silent by the window, shoulders rigid—just as when the topic was his mother and he didn’t know what to say. “And where’s our cat?” Katie suddenly remembered. “What cat?” “Milo. The ginger. That’s why you had the keys!” “No idea,” Sue shrugged. “Haven’t seen a cat.” Katie searched and found the cat wedged under the bed, fur on end, eyes wide. He hissed when she reached out. “Milo, love,” she lay on the floor, “It’s me. It’s all right now.” He stared warily. The room smelled strange. Medicines sat on her bedside table. The bed was made but not her way. Someone else’s slippers were on the carpet. Max knelt next to her. “Sorry.” “For what? You didn’t know.” “For mum. For her being like this.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” he fumed. “Remember when we first moved in, and she’d just turn up without warning? I thought I got the message across…” Voices in the hall. Linda had arrived, all outrage. “Max, what’s all this nonsense?” “Mum, sit down,” he gestured. “Sit? Sue, Victor, pack up—we’re being thrown out. You’ll stay at mine.” “Mum. Sit. Please.” Linda, realising her son’s stony face, subsided. The three went to the kitchen, where Michael was finishing his sausages. “Explain to me, mum, how you thought it was OK to let people into our flat without so much as a text?” “I was helping! Sue rang—Michael’s ill, they were coming to London, nowhere to stay. I knew the flat was empty.” “But it’s not your flat.” “How’s it not? I’ve got keys, haven’t I?” “Keys for feeding the cat. Not to run a B&B.” “Max, they’re family! Sue’s my cousin, Victor’s lovely, Michael’s sick. And you’d put them out on the street?” Katie’s hands shook as she poured water. “You didn’t ask us, Linda.” “Why would I? You weren’t here!” “All the more reason to ask,” Max’s voice rose. “We have phones. You could have called, texted—asked. We’d have worked it out.” “And refused?” “Maybe. Or agreed to a shorter stay, with some ground rules. But we’d have known. That’s called respect.” Linda stood. “You see. I try, I help, and I always get blamed. Sue, pack up. We’ll squeeze in mine.” “You’ve only got a one-bed. You said it was too small for four…” “We’ll manage. Better than staying with ingrates.” Katie set her glass down. “Linda, stop. You know exactly what you did wrong. Otherwise, you’d have called first.” She froze. “You knew we’d object. That’s why you just told us when it was too late. So we’d have no choice but to put up with it. Right?” “I meant well.” “No. You wanted your way. That’s different.” For the first time, Linda looked lost. “Sue was in tears. Michael’s in pain. I just wanted to help.” “We understand,” said Max. “But you can’t just take over. Mum, imagine if I came to yours while you were away and let my friends stay. Didn’t ask. How would you feel?” “I’d be angry.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence. Sue quietly wept, Victor packed. Michael stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. “Sorry,” mumbled the boy. “I thought it was OK. Grandma Linda said so.” Katie gave him a tired look. Just a frightened, guilty lad. None of this was his fault. “It’s not your fault,” she sighed. “Go help your parents.” Linda wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I really thought it was right. Didn’t think to ask. You’re my children, I always did everything, thought you’d understand.” “We’re not children, mum. We’re in our thirties. We have our own life.” “I get it,” Linda stood. “Do you want the keys back?” “We do,” Katie said. “Sorry, but trust is broken.” “I understand.” Sue’s family packed fast, apologising awkwardly. Linda took them away, promising she’d make space. Max shut the door and leaned against it. They wandered through their home. The bed needed remaking. The fridge needed sorting. There were things out of place everywhere: forgotten bits, moved furniture, dirty dishes. Milo stayed under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Katie asked, opening the kitchen window. “I hope so.” “And if not?” “We’ll be firmer next time. Never again.” Katie hugged her husband. They stood in their disrupted home in silence. “You know what hurts most?” she pulled away. “The cat. This was all for him, and he’s been ignored all week, scared, starving.” “Did they even feed him?” “Doesn’t look like it. Empty dish, murky water. I doubt they even remembered him.” Max crouched by the bed. “Milo, mate, I’m sorry. No more keys for grandma.” The cat peeked out warily, then slowly emerged and rubbed against Max’s legs. Katie brought food, and he devoured it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. They began to clean—their things, their routines, slowly reclaiming their home. Milo ate, then curled up in the window, finally peaceful. That evening, Linda called. Her voice was quiet, ashamed. “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thank you, mum.” “Is Katie angry?” He looked at his wife—she nodded. “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat drinking tea, saying little. Night gathered outside. The flat was clean, quiet, theirs again—though their holiday had ended, suddenly and harshly.

I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! As the doors of the reception hall slowly swung open, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, carefully holding up the hem and trying not to betray the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out bubbling glasses of champagne—everything was as Artem and I had dreamed. Well, almost. Just as I was catching my breath before stepping into the hall, the screech of brakes suddenly pierced the quiet. Through the glass entrance, I spotted an old silver people carrier pulling up to the steps. The door slid open, and out came a noisy crew: Auntie Gail, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Please, not this,” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “Did they actually come?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with children.” We stood frozen in the doorway, ready to be announced and swept into the celebration as husband and wife, but instead we were two actors suddenly at a loss for lines on opening night. At that moment, I understood: if I didn’t keep it together now, the entire day would be ruined. But to make sense of how we got here, you’d have to go back several weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing: we wanted a quiet, intimate, cosy wedding. Only 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we dislike children. But because we dreamed of an evening free from dashing about, high-pitched screams, tumbling off bouncy castles, spilled juice, and other people’s midnight lectures. All our friends understood. My parents did too. Artem’s parents were surprised, but quickly got over it. But the extended family… Auntie Gail called first—a woman whose volume is coded firmly in her DNA. “Inna!” she started without a hello. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We just want a peaceful evening, so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She sounded so scandalised, you’d think I’d proposed a nationwide ban on babies. “Don’t you get it? We’re a close family! We always go everywhere together!” “It’s our special day. We aren’t forcing anyone to come, but that’s our rule.” A heavy pause, as solid as granite. “Fine, then. We won’t be there,” she snapped, and hung up. I looked at the phone, feeling like I’d just hit the big red ‘disaster’ button. Three days later, Artem arrived home, looking grim. “Inna… can we talk?” “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three kids aren’t some sort of wild monsters, but normal people, and if they’re not wanted, she’s not coming either—not her, her husband, or her in-laws.” “So, five fewer?” “Eight,” he corrected, collapsing onto the sofa. “They say we’re breaking tradition.” I couldn’t help but laugh—a hysterical, broken sort of laugh. “What tradition? Letting kids take out waiters with snack trays?” Artem managed a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re ready to riot.” But the campaign didn’t stop there. A week later, we went for family dinner at Artem’s parents’ place, and there I got a surprise. His grandmother, quiet and usually invisible, suddenly took charge. “Children are a blessing,” she scolded. “Without them, a wedding feels empty.” I was about to reply, but Artem’s mum got there first. “Mum, please! Children at weddings are chaos. You complain about the noise yourself. How many times have we crawled under tables to catch the little runners?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the wishes of the ones getting married,” his mother said, perfectly calm. I wanted to stand up and cheer. But Grandma only shook her head. “I still think you’re wrong.” That’s when I knew: this had officially become a family drama on par with Game of Thrones. And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout punch came a few days later. Ring. Uncle Mike’s name flashed up—normally as unflappable as an English oak. “Inna, hi,” he began gently. “We’ve been talking… Why no children? They’re part of us—you know we always go to weddings together.” I sighed. “Mike, we just want a calm evening. Honestly, we’re not forcing anyone…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But… Olya says if the children aren’t included, she won’t come. And I’ll stay with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more off the list. By now our guest count was dropping like January pounds. Artem sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said quietly. “It’s our day, not theirs.” But the pressure kept coming. Grandma would throw in, “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya posted in the family WhatsApp: “A shame, really, when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The people carrier pulled up right in front of the steps. Children were out first, marching across the paving as if they’d rehearsed it. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her handbag. “I’m going mad,” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We walked outside to greet them. Auntie Gail sailed onto the top step. “Well hello, newlyweds!” she declared in a stage voice. “Sorry we’re late, but we decided to come after all. We’re family, you know! Couldn’t leave the children—no one to watch them. But they’ll be very quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem muttered, eyeing the kids already poking their heads under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed, very clearly: no children. You knew this from the start.” “But it’s a wedding…” she began. That’s when Grandma stepped in. “We’re here to celebrate you,” she said, measured, “but children are family. It’s wrong to separate them out.” “Mrs. Paulson,” I said as gently as I could, “We’re glad you’re here, truly. But this was our choice. And if people can’t respect that, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t get to finish. “Mum!” Artem’s mother cut in, emerging from the hall. “Stop ruining their day. Adults party—children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Grandma blinked. Auntie Gail froze. Even the children went suddenly silent—sensing the shift. Gail sniffled. “Well… okay. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. We just thought it would be better this way.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silent standoff, and then—without a word—they led the children back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home. The adults remained. For the first time, completely voluntarily. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, a gentle hum of conversation. Friends raised glasses, gentlemen made way, waiters poured the champagne. I realised then: we had done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, wife… I think we won.” “I think so too,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. Our first dance—no little feet underfoot. No one shouting or dropping cakes, no Peppa Pig videos blaring from a mobile. Just grown-ups chatting, laughing, enjoying the music. A few hours later, Grandma approached. “Inna, Artem,” she said softly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… nice. Really nice. So peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paulson.” She sighed. “Old habits die hard. But you knew best.” Those words meant more to me than any wedding toast. Towards the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching her Prosecco as if it were a shield. “Inna…” she lowered her voice. “I went overboard. Sorry. We’ve always had kids everywhere. But tonight… it was beautiful. Peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thanks for being here,” I replied, honestly. “We never get to relax, being parents. But tonight… I felt like a real person again,” she confided. “A bit sad we never thought of this before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the reception ended, Artem and I stepped out into the lamplight. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “Because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was what mattered. Family is important. Tradition matters too. But boundaries are just as important. And if the couple says “no children at the wedding,” it isn’t a whim—it’s their right. As it turns out, even the clunkiest family traditions can change—if you make it clear the decision is final. That day was a lesson for all of us—especially for Artem and me: sometimes, to save your celebration, you need to be able to say “no.” And that “no” makes for a truly happy day.