Knock Knock, We’ve Arrived: When Family Invades Without Asking, and How to Finally Say ‘No’—A Story of Auntie Natasha, Relentless Relatives, and Closing Your Own Front Door

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 3

Open Up, We’ve Arrived

“Emily, it’s Aunt Patricia!” The voice on the phone had such a cloying, insincere cheerfulness it made my teeth itch. “We’ll be in town next week; just need to sort out a few papers. We’ll stay with you, a week or two, that’s alright, isn’t it?”

I almost choked on my tea. No hello, no ‘how are you’, justwell stay. Not, ‘would it be okay’, not, ‘is it convenient’. Just ‘well stay’. Full stop.

“Aunt Patricia,” I worked to keep my voice gentle, “lovely to hear from you. About staying…” I tried to sound diplomatic. “Let me help you find a hotel? Theres some excellent, really affordable options right now.”
“What hotel?” My aunt scoffed, as if Id said something outrageously dense. “Why waste money? Didnt your father leave you that flat? A whole three-bedroom flat for one person!”

I closed my eyes. Here we go.

“Its my flat, Aunt.”
“Yours?” Her tone sharpened, unpleasant. “And what about your fatherwho was he? Not family? Bloods thicker than water, Emily. Were not strangers, yet here you are trying to shove us into a hotel like unwanted guests!”
“Im not shoving anyone anywhere. I just cant host you.”
“And why’s that?”

Because last time you made my life a living hell, I thoughtbut said instead,

“Just circumstances, Aunt Patricia. I really cant.”
“Circumstances!” she snapped now, irritation clear. “Three empty rooms and youve got circumstances! Your father would never have turned family away. You take after your mother, you know, just like
“Aunt Patricia…”
“What? Well see you Saturday, lunchtime. Martin and Oliver are coming too. Get ready for us.”
“I really can’t”
“Emily!” Her voice grew hard, commanding. “This isn’t up for discussion. Saturday. Be there.”

The phone clicked off.

I set the phone down on the table and stared at nothing for a minute. Then let out a slow, heavy breath and slumped back in my chair.

Always the same.

Two years ago, Aunt Patricia had visited before. Turned up with her whole crew, said three daysstayed two weeks. I remembered it vividly: Martin, her husband, sprawled across my sofa in muddy boots, channel surfing until the early hours. Oliver, their overgrown son of twenty-three, raided my fridge and never touched a plate to the sink. Aunt Patricia presided over my kitchen, critiquing everythingcurtains, tiles, even my kettle was wrong.

When they finally left, I found a scorched armchair, a smashed shelf in the bathroom, suspicious stains on the sitting room rug. Not one mention of money. Not for food, not for the electricity bill that spiked, not a penny. Just bags packed with a breezy, “Thanks Emily, youre a real darling.”

I rubbed at my temples.

No more. She can bang on about my father or family ties all she likes. If she turns up Saturday, shell find the door locked.

I grabbed my phone and opened the browser. Time to book them a hotel. Good, comfortable, with all the amenities. Id send the addressand make it clear: that’s the extent of my hospitality.

If they dont get it, well, not my concern.

The next two days passed in blessed quiet. I worked, took evening walks, cooked dinners for one, and almost convinced myself that call had been just a nightmare. Who knows, maybe shed change her mind. Maybe they’d find another relative to pester.

On Thursday evening, my mobile flashed: ‘Aunt Patricia’. My stomach turned.

“Emily, its me!” Her chirpy voice burst into my silence. “Were arriving tomorrow, trains in at two. Meet us and have some proper food ready after the journey, alright?”

I sat slowly on the edge of the sofa, fingers whitened around my phone.

“Aunt Patricia,” I spoke slowly, each word measured, “Ive said, I wont be letting you in. Please dont come here.”
“Oh, dont be silly!” she laughed, as if Id told a joke. “Youre not a child, Emily. Wont let us, will let us Weve already bought the tickets!”
“Thats your problem, not mine.”
“Emily, honestly!” Her voice flickered with surprise, then reverted to that familiar bulldozing tone. “Youre family, youre supposed to helpthats sacred!”
“I dont owe anyone anything.”
“Oh, yes you do! Your father, God rest him”
“Aunt Patricia, enough about Dad. My answer is no. Thats final.”

She gave a heavy, performative sigh, as if bracing herself before scolding a stroppy child.

“Emily, your opinion doesn’t matter here, alright? Were family. Stop acting like were enemies. Tomorrow at twodont forget!”
“Ive already”
“Alright, kisses, see you then!”

Dial tone.

I stared at the black screen for a few moments, something hot and furious rising in my chest. I hurled the phone onto the sofa and paced the roomthree strides each way, like a caged animal.

So my wishes dont matter. Excellent. Just brilliant.

I stopped sharply.

Well, have another think, dear Aunt.

I snatched up the phone and dialed Mum.

Hello? Emily? Mums voice was warm, a little bemused. Is everything alright?
“Hi Mum. ListenI need to come stay with you. Tomorrow. For a week or so, maybe a bit more.”

Pause.

“Tomorrow? You were just here a month ago”
“I know, I know. It’s important. Works remoteI can do it from wherever. Is that ok?”

She hesitated, and I could almost see her frowning at the unexpected request.

“Of course, love. You know youre always welcome. Are you sure everythings alright?”
“All fine, Mum, just missed you.”

I hung up and let myself smile for the first time in days. Tomorrow, at the very moment Aunt Patricia and clan arrived at my locked flat, Id be three hundred miles away, having tea in my mothers kitchen. They could call, knock, make a scene on the landingitd do no good. I wouldnt be just nipped to the shops or out with a friend. Id be in another city.

I booked my train ticket6:45am. Perfect. By the time my aunt was rattling my letterbox, Id be halfway through a cuppa with Mum.

Blood may be thicker than water, but sometimes family needs a firm ‘no’.

On the train, I listened to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels and pictured my aunts face at my bolted front door. My eyes drooped and my head buzzed, but beneath it all, I felt at peace.

Mum met me at the platform, hugged me tight, drove us home. Fed me pancakes and tea, and sent me to bed.

Well talk later,” she said, whisking my empty mug away. “You rest first.”

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

When I woke, it was to the trill of my mobile. I fumbled blindly, squinting until I made out ‘Aunt Patricia’.

“Emily!” My aunt was shouting so loudly I had to pull the phone from my ear. “Weve been at your door for nearly twenty minutes! Why wont you open up?!”

I sat up, rubbing my face. The sun was setting outsideId slept through the afternoon.

“Because I’m not there,” I replied, unable to hide a smirk.
“What do you mean, not there?! Where are you?!”
“In another city.”

Silence. Then rage

“Youve lost your mind! You knew we were coming and you ran off?! How could you?!”
“Easily. I did warn you I wouldn’t let you in. You didnt listen.”
“How dare you! You must have left a key somewhere! With a neighbour, a friend! Ring them, get them to bring it! Well stay without youwere not children!”

I froze. Bold move, Aunt Patricia.

“Aunt, are you serious?”
“Completely! Were exhausted, and this is the circus you pull?”
“I was never going to share my home with you. And certainly wont leave it open for you.”
“You!”

The bedroom door creaked. Mum stood in the doorway, dressing gown, hair mussed, eyes narrowed. She silently held out her hand, and for some reason, I handed her my phone.

“Patricia,” Mum’s voice was cold as stone, “it’s Vera. Listen to me, and do not interrupt.”

From the phone came a low, blustering sound.

“Yuri could hardly tolerate younever did. I know it better than anyone. So why are you pestering his daughter? What is it you want?”

Aunt Patricia stammered, tongue-tied.

“Good. Don’t ring Emily again. Never. Shes got help and support when she needs itand its definitely not from you. That’s all. Goodbye.”

She ended the call, handed me back the phone.

I gazed at Mum as if seeing her new for the first time.

“Mum You Ive never seen you like that.”

She snorted, adjusted her gown.

“Your father taught me that. Said the only way with Patricia is to bark once, properlyand she’ll stay away for years.”

She grinned suddenly, the lines around her eyes fanning into rays.

“Still works, funny enough.”

I laughednot a prim smile, but loud and free, all the tension pouring out at last. Mum joined in.

“Come on,” she waved towards the kitchen, “lets put the kettle on. You can tell me what on earth that was all about.”

Dad’s Holiday Cottage Olga discovered, quite unexpectedly and by sheer chance, that Dad’s cherished country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from the local post office when, due to a mix-up by the operator, she was connected by accident to a conversation between her mum and her aunt. The news broke with the surreal randomness of a film scene: two voices from two cities, sharing the fact that the cottage was gone, sold at a good price, and now there might even be enough left over to help Olga out a bit! Her mum and her aunt—voices as familiar and precious as home itself—hundreds of kilometres away, their speech turned into electric signals and sent who knows how far across England. Physics had always been a puzzle for Olga; Dad insisted she study harder. *** “Dad, why is the September sunshine so different?” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “I don’t know… I just can’t explain it. The light’s softer, somehow. It’s sunny but not like August.” “You’ve got to learn your physics, Oggy—the position of the planets changes in September! Catch this apple!” Dad laughed and tossed her a huge, shiny red apple with a hint of honey scent. “Discovery?” “No, not yet. Cinnamon Stripe.” Olga bit into the apple, sweet foam flooding her mouth, capturing the warmth of summer rains and the juice of the earth. She knew little about apples or physics—and therein lay her biggest worry! Because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been hopelessly in love with her physics teacher for two years. The universe had narrowed down to rays of sunlight and the laws of matter, all refusing to fit neatly into the pages of her English school exercise book. Not that Dad needed telling; he could see it in her distant eyes and poor appetite. She’d confessed last year, sobbing all night on his lap. Mum was away, holidaying in a spa. Her sister, a dozen years older, was studying in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy. He whistled lively tunes—he never did that at home. There, Mum and her older sister held the stage. Mum was a stunner, head librarian at an RAF base, tall, proud, with a stubborn streak and a mane of coppery hair dyed with henna. Every other month, she’d emerge from the bath wrapped in a big turban, scented with herbs and rain. Mum’s beauty was plain for all to see. Dad, nearly ten years her senior and a bit shorter, was quiet and unassuming. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” Mum had once said, and Olga had taken offense, overhearing. Unassuming—or so he seemed next to Mum’s flaming hair, dramatic gestures, and spirited nature. Mum loved comfort and order, but Dad always welcomed his “soldiers,” as he called his pals from his days in the forces. Some slept on the floor of their tiny two-bed flat. After Dad was made redundant as a major in the 1960 Army Downsizing (“one million three hundred thousand out!”), he worked as chief engineer at the Liverpool Telegraph Office. His soldiers built the cottage for him, taking turns digging and hammering away for free. It was tiny, just one room and a porch, but Olga loved curling up on the roof with a bowl of gooseberries or strawberries, carried up by Dad. Bliss. Mum rarely visited, reluctant to spoil her beautiful hands with any digging. Olga admired them; Dad kissed them. “These hands are made for lending out books, not for working the vegetable patch,” he’d joke, winking. *** The first drops of September rain tapped cheerfully on the porch roof. Olga tucked away her book. “Oggy, come down! Mum and Irina will be here soon, and we need to sort dinner,” Dad called, his voice ringing with unaccustomed brightness at the cottage. Olga dawdled, head tilted skyward. The clouds were swollen, grey, but not threatening. Rain slicked her face. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched beams of sunlight stabbing through the cloud, over neighbours’ gardens. Physics forgot, her first year at journalism school in London spread before her with its own rules. She’d been placed straight into a hostel room; for the first week, she rented a flat, sharing with the landlady and a room full of students. Her studies were a deep plunge into literature and language—everyone in her group fell in love with the engaging lecturers. But after class, homesickness pressed in. Too few friends yet. She grabbed lunches at the university canteen, wandering streets until dark. The city’s beauty felt strange, cold, lonely. At night she’d climb the steep Metalworks Hill near the main university building, past private homes, limping from new, pinching shoes. The kitchen in her rented flat was filled with the smell of apples; Dad had brought crates for the landlady as thanks. That mellow smell made her eyes fill, soul restless in her chest. Her hostel roommates were students from Germany—Viola, Maggie, Marion—and their babble of German gave her headaches by evening. She’d step outside to smoke, often joined by her German mates who borrowed cigarettes and always paid for them. They were fascinated by the pickled tomatoes Olga’s mum sent, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s pantry was bare, the Germans produced sausage beyond any English student’s dreams, but rarely shared. In May, their exchange program ended; they left behind piles of German boots, bought especially for the Russian winter. British students nabbed them on the sly. *** “Oggy, chop the cabbage for me, I’ll dig up some carrots. Broth’s ready.” The kitchen windows fogged up. The giant cabbage bloomed lace-green on the board, Olga tasting a leaf—nothing beats homegrown! She chopped energetically, sweet scent swirling, flung open the window: in blew the promise of autumn leaves, bonfires, apples. She saw Dad from the back: the spade going in with effort—she knew his back ached. Dropping the knife, she rushed outside, hugged him. He turned, embraced her, kissed her hair. That evening only her sister Irina arrived; Mum had a headache, stayed home. *** Then came university, a whirlwind marriage, her first job at the “Pioneer” factory paper, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter born, even a divorce. So much in five years. Olga’s husband left for someone else; she lived with toddler Marisha in a rented flat. Dad came biweekly, loaded down with groceries, playing with Marisha. “Oggy, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less often, okay? She gets car sick… And, well, she might have a new gentleman…” “Dad! Come on—you’re not serious!” Dad laughed, bitterness lacing his voice. Silenced. Olga suddenly saw how pale and old he’d grown, even stopped whistling. “Dad, how about I take some holiday and we all go to the cottage with Marisha, while it’s still warm?” *** The garden was deep in leaves—the final warm week of October. A fire in the stove, tea steeped with blackcurrant leaves, Olga frying potato cakes in a hurry. Dad raked leaves; Marisha “helped,” scattering and laughing. The oil spat and popped. Deep in the orchard, Dad’s whistle drifted back. By evening, the bonfire burned. The street was empty, neighbour’s gardens shadowy. Dad threaded thick bread onto cherry twigs for roasting, helping Marisha hold them over the flames. Olga stretched her cold hands to the fire, lost in its spell. She remembered her first student work trip to Yorkshire—guitar songs under the stars, intoxication with the night’s mystery rather than any one crush. Faces in firelight each held their own secrets. That’s where she met her future husband. This week, work called her up to consider joining the Labour Party; the night before she crammed party manifestos, felt grilled about her divorce and morals. Nearly in tears, a colleague leapt to defend her: “This is a meeting of bullies, not comrades!” Years later, she’d shudder at the memory. After dark, they doused the fire. At the gate, a car stopped—a door slammed. Mum, radiant in a stylish coat, arrived with a work colleague who’d driven her over. Marisha ran to her gran; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that?” “Sasha, it doesn’t matter, just a lift from work—you don’t know him.” Dinner was tense, Marisha fussy. Mum asked about work, distracted, Dad glared at her, shoulders sinking ever lower. Evening ruined. *** Within a year, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack—gone in two days, early in a warm golden October. Straight after the funeral, Olga took leave and went to the cottage. Marisha stayed with her grandmother. Everything fell out of her hands. The harvest was immense. Olga handed buckets of apples to neighbours, cooked preserves with mint and cinnamon—as Dad loved. Dad’s old comrade came round to help; together, they’d go to Wisley for rare saplings. “I’ll stay a few days, Oggy, dig the garden, prune trees, if you’re okay.” “Oh Mr Atkin… Thank you!” The “Oggy” brought tears. In that moment, the bleakness, orphanhood, finality hit. Before then, she’d half hoped Dad would return, that it was all a bad dream. First mornings after losing him, during that edge of sleep, she’d fumble to remember what was so wrong—then it would hit, wave after wave—Dad was gone. The guilt followed: why hadn’t she kept him earthbound? “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll come, help, every time. You know, Oggy, we picked this apple tree together, you were just a kid. On the way to Wisley, Sasha talked more about you than your big sister. You were so small, funny. He always said the trees would outlast him. Many times, I rushed him to pick a sapling!” Mr Atkin stayed three days, tilled soil, pruned apples, spread fertiliser, planted three yellow chrysanthemums in memory of Dad. “A bit late to plant, but the autumn’s mild—they’ll flourish. For Sasha.” Roses still needed wrapping, but that would have to wait for spring. They hugged goodbye. The drizzle grew; Olga watched him retreat through the gate until he turned and waved her inside. Rain hammered the roof and slammed the gate with a mournful creak. The porch was scattered with yellow petals. Everything was Dad’s and always would be—rain, trees, autumn scents, the very soil. He was still there, somehow, and always would be. Olga would learn, would return with Marisha even in cold weather—just two hours by coach. Come spring, maybe she’d get central heating sorted. Start saving soon. She’d definitely go to Wisley with Mr Atkin, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted some. *** Six months later, early April, as the last snow held on, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by accident, on the telephone at the post office, dialing home after a trip to Wisley. In the cramped little phone booth, at her feet in a bag, nestled a white currant sapling, wrapped damply at the roots with an old children’s t-shirt.

I Discovered My Son Had Abandoned His Pregnant Girlfriend—So I Hired a Top Family Lawyer for Her When I Learned What My Son Did, My World Collapsed, Not from Shame, But for the Sake of the Poor Girl Delivering Takeaways on Her Scooter, Exhausted and Heavily Pregnant—So I Decided to Make Things Right Myself I Knocked on Her Door Tuesday Afternoon—Still in Her Work Uniform, Belly Obvious, Eyes Tired—And Said Honestly, ‘I’m the Mother of the Irresponsible Lad Who Left You, and I’m Here to Sort Things Out’ Tears Filled Her Eyes as I Explained, ‘I’m Not Here to Cause Trouble, I’m Here with Solutions—I’ve Already Paid for the Best Family Law Solicitor, Your Appointment Is Tomorrow’ I Told Her, ‘That Boy May Have Come from My Womb, But He Did Not Inherit My Values; He’ll Support This Baby, Even If He Has to Work Three Jobs.’ The Lawyer Did His Job Brilliantly. When My Granddaughter Was Born—Because She Is My Granddaughter, Whether My Son Admits It or Not—I Showed Up at the Hospital with Nappies, Baby Clothes, and a Cot in the Boot ‘Ma’am, You Don’t Have to—’ She Began. ‘Yes, I Do,’ I Interrupted. ‘I’m the Grandma.’ My Son Stopped Speaking to Me, Accusing Me of Betrayal and Interference. I Told Him the Only One Who Ruined Lives Was Him—I’m Simply Repairing the Damage Two Years Later, the Young Woman and My Granddaughter Live With Me—She’s Studying Nights to Be a Nurse, I Mind the Baby, and We’re the Oddest, Yet Closest Family in the Neighbourhood. My Son Still Doesn’t Speak to Me, But He Pays Child Support Without Fail—The Solicitor Is Very Convincing. Yesterday, While I Was Feeding the Baby, She Gave Me a Hug and Whispered, ‘Thank You, Mum.’ ‘Mum.’ And I Wonder: Is There Any Greater Gift Than Gaining a Daughter and Grandchild, Even If It Means Temporarily Losing a Son? Sometimes, Family Isn’t Where You’re Born, But Who You Choose to Stand By. A Story of Responsibility, Conscience, and Unexpected Love

You’re Taking Advantage of Grandma—She Looks After Your Child but Won’t Even Watch Mine on Weekends There are times in life when we need a quick fix to a problem, just as Laura did. My son is now four years old. There’s no doubt he’s perfect for me. He’s not exactly well-behaved, but are any four-year-olds really angels? They all get up to mischief. Meanwhile, I’m expecting my second child—and that’s where everything began. When I went for my next antenatal appointment, I was sent straight to the hospital—there was cause for concern. No time for delays. The big question was: who would look after my son? My husband was away on a business trip, due back in ten days. My parents were both at work, and no other relatives were available. Then Grandma stepped in and offered to help—she said she’d watch my son until I was discharged. She’s seventy, and he’s energetic, so I didn’t know if she could manage, but what choice did I have? The plan was made. My parents work in the private sector, so they offered to look after their grandson in the evenings, and Grandma would take care of him during the day. It was decided. Still, I worried—after all, he’s my son, and I had no choice. I rang Grandma for updates, only to discover they’d found their own way together. The week flew by, and when my husband returned, he took over. Soon, I was due to come home. Then my sister rang in a rage, saying I’d taken advantage. Her daughter is two, and no matter how she begged, Grandma wouldn’t agree to mind her, even for a weekend, claiming the little one was just too young. ‘You’re spoiling Grandma!’ my sister accused. I explained: I was in a tricky situation—I couldn’t bring my son to hospital with me. I’d asked for my sister’s help, but she refused. Now she wanted to send her daughter to Grandma just so she could relax and take a break. There’s a big difference between leaving a two-year-old and a four-year-old with an elderly lady. Why not take her to her own grandparents? ‘They won’t look after her,’ she said. ‘I have to be on duty all the time.’ I think my sister’s got it wrong—two-year-olds and four-year-olds are worlds apart. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t leave my son with relatives, but my sister insists I’ve taken advantage of Grandma.