I Went to Visit My Brother for Christmas… Only to Discover I Wasn’t Invited Because His Wife “Doesn’t Want People Like Me” in Her Home

Author Walton MerrittReading 4 minViews 2

So, I have to tell you what happened last Christmasstill blows my mind, honestly.

I went to visit my brother for Christmas or, well, I thought I was visiting, but turned out he hadnt actually invited me because apparently his wife doesnt want people like me in her house.

Im 41 now, and my brother, William, is 38. Weve always been close. Shared a bedroom growing up, got into mischief together, were there for the good and bad bits. I suppose you could say weve been proper mates our whole lives. But ever since he got married to Amanda, hes changed a bit, though I didnt want to see it.

Last year, early in December, I got this weird feelingWilliam hadnt mentioned Christmas dinner at all. And I mean, its always been a thing, hasnt it? Christmas together. Always.

So one evening, I just couldnt wait any longer. I thought, If he wont invite me, Ill invite myself. I mean, its Williammy own brother, not some random stranger.

On the 24th, about six in the evening, I texted him, asking when hed be picking me up. No reply. Then I calledstraight to voicemail. My heart just dropped. In the end, I got a cab and headed straight for his place.

When I got there, I could hear music and laughter, kids running about, the sound of glasses clinkingproper Christmas mayhem. For a second, I almost felt awkward knocking, seeing all the festivities, but I knocked anyway.

William answered the door and went white as a sheet. He gave me this quick hug, all stiff and weird.
He said, Oh, Sophie you couldve given me a heads-up you were coming.

I just said, Well, you never gave me a heads-up about anything, so I came. Whats going on?

Before letting me in, he peered over his shoulder, like he was weighing up his options or something.

I stepped inside, and I honestly froze for a second.
The table was heavingAmandas whole family were there. Cousins, uncles, aunties, even a neighbour from across the road. Absolutely everyone. Everyone except me.

Amanda just smiled this fake little smile and carried on serving up as if I was invisible.

So there I was, plonked onto the sofa, awkward and feeling like a ghost. Thenclear as dayI heard Amanda say to her mum (they thought I couldnt hear):

Told you shed turn up and ruin the evening. I didnt want people like her here.

People like me? What does that even mean? What on earth have I ever done?

I sat there, trying not to start crying in front of everyone, just swallowing lump after lump in my throat.

William heard it too. His face changed. He came and sat next to me and whispered, Sophie, just ignore her. Shes always like that.

I looked at him and said, Like what, Will? What did I ever do to her? How can it be, I come to my brothers home and feel like an intruder?

So then he admitted everything. He said, She didnt want me to invite you. Said youre too opinionated, always get involved, thinking you need to help everyoneand, I just didnt want to argue with her at Christmas.

Honestly, I had no words.
My own brother chose not to invite me, just to keep the peace with his wife.

I didnt cause a scene. Didnt say much at all.
I just stood up and told him, Dont worry. Im going home.

He begged me to stay, but I just couldnt. Didnt want to sit around where I clearly wasnt wanted.

Walked down the street, choking up the whole way home.

When I got back, I shoved some leftover chicken and rice in the microwave, ate alone. Flicked through old Christmas photos of the two of usme and Will, grinning at the camera when we were kids. And, honestly, something in me cracked, because he hadnt stood up for me, hadnt protected what wed had.

We still havent spoken about it, not really. Every now and then he says hell come round one day soon, but I dont knowwhether to let him, whether to just let things drift.

One things for sure: I wont be at theirs this Christmas.

Happy Women Always Look Their Best Lily struggled through her husband’s betrayal. At forty, she found herself alone; her daughter was studying at university in another city. Just two months earlier, Igor had come home and announced: “I’m leaving you, I’ve fallen in love.” Shocked, Lily asked, “With whom?” He replied flatly, “The way men always do… I’ve met someone else, I’m happier with her. Don’t try to persuade me—I’ve made up my mind.” He packed his things and left, all matter-of-fact, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was only later, after analysing things, that Lily realised he hadn’t made his decision overnight—he’d been quietly preparing to leave, only throwing his things in a suitcase at the last minute before slamming the door shut. Alone now, Lily cried and convinced herself that nothing good would ever happen to her again, that life had either ended or frozen. She withdrew from friends, ignored calls from her daughter and best friend, and even distanced herself from colleagues, some of whom pitied her while others looked on with schadenfreude. Lily even hoped: “Maybe Igor will tire of the woman who stole him from me, maybe he’ll come back and I’ll forgive him. After all, I still love him.” One morning, a phone call from an unknown number disrupted her despair: “Could it be Igor?” she wondered, hoping irrationally. But the call was from Ksenia, an old school friend, back in town after years away. Ksenia was radiant—well-groomed, stylish, and bursting with energy. She took charge, arriving with wine, cake, and oranges for a spontaneous celebration. After hearing Lily’s woes, Ksenia dismissed them: “Don’t make life so hard! You just need a change—a new look, some shopping, and maybe new love.” She whisked Lily to the mall and hairdresser, transforming her with a fresh haircut and stylish outfit. A week later at their school reunion, Lily’s transformation stunned everyone, especially Viktor, an old admirer who had also recently gone through a divorce. Viktor showered her with attention, and their easy happiness made Lily feel new and vibrant again. Two months later, strolling arm-in-arm with Viktor along the embankment after a theatre night, Lily spotted Igor—thinner now, and alone. He didn’t recognise her at first, but when he realised, he was shocked: “You look amazing!” Lily smiled and introduced him to Viktor as her “future husband.” As Igor gaped, Lily took Viktor’s hand and walked confidently away. For happy women always look their best.

I’m 60 and about to turn 61 in two months—not a milestone birthday like 70 or 80, but it means a lot to me. I want to celebrate it properly: not with a hurried cake or a casual lunch, but with a real, well-organised party—an elegant dinner, beautifully set tables, decorated chairs, waiters, soft music. Something that will make me feel alive, appreciated, and grateful for everything I’ve been through. The problem is, my children don’t agree. I have two grown-up sons. Both live with me—with their partners and children. The house is always full: noise, TV blaring, children running, conversations, arguments. Of course I love them… but I have no quiet moments anymore. I’m never alone. Never. They work, but in truth, I cover most of the expenses. I have a pension, money my husband left me, and a small business I still run. I pay the bills, buy the groceries, pay for repairs, and often provide ‘temporary help’ that turns permanent. Helping never bothered me. What bothers me now is that my sons make decisions for me. When I told them I wanted to have a party, they claimed it was a waste of money. That, at my age, I shouldn’t spend it on tables, food, and waiters. That the money would be better given to them—for investments, for their own needs, for ‘something useful’. They spoke to me as if I were irresponsible with my own savings. I explained that I wouldn’t need to borrow and that I’ve been thinking about this for months. But they wouldn’t listen, insisting it’s an unnecessary expense. One of them said to me: — Mum, things like this aren’t for you anymore. That stung more than I expected. I started thinking things I never dared say aloud. That sometimes I just want to be alone in my own house. That I miss waking up to peace and quiet. That I wish I could come home to an empty living room. That I want to make decisions without having to justify myself. I’ve even considered telling them to find their own place—not out of spite, but because I feel like I’ve done my part. But then I feel guilty. I’m afraid of sounding selfish. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to ‘kick anyone out’ for the night. I just want to know if I’m wrong for wanting to celebrate. For craving a bit of quiet. For wanting my money to be spent on me, too. I’m writing because I genuinely don’t know what to do—whether to stand my ground or give in. Whether to have the party even though they disapprove. Tell me, am I wrong to want to celebrate my birthday my way—and to want my home and my money not to be a ‘family decision’?

ARE YOU REALLY MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, marriage was never part of my plans. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s relentless wooing, I’d still be flying free as a bird. Artem was like a lovesick butterfly — fluttering endlessly around me, never letting me out of his sight, doing his best to please, treating me like I was made of glass… Eventually, I gave in. We got married. Artem instantly felt like home — comfortable, familiar, like a favourite pair of slippers. A year later, our son Stanley was born. Artem worked in another city, coming home only once a week, always bringing tasty treats for little Stan. During one visit, I prepared to wash his clothes, routinely checking all his pockets (I’d once washed his driving licence by accident!). This time, a folded paper slipped out of his trousers — a lengthy list of school supplies (it was August), with a childlike scrawl at the bottom: “Dad, please come home soon.” So, that’s how my husband entertains himself elsewhere! Bigamist! I didn’t make a scene — just packed a bag, took Stan (not yet three) by the hand, and went off to my mum’s for an extended stay. Mum gave us a spare room: “Live here till you make up.” Vengeful thoughts emerged against my thankless husband. I remembered my old schoolmate Rob — why not have a “romance” with him! Rob never gave me a moment’s peace, back in school or after. I phoned him. “Hi, Rob! Not married yet?” I began, playing it cool. “Nadine? Hey! Does it matter? Married, divorced… Shall we meet?” My unscheduled fling with Rob lasted half a year. Artem delivered child support to my mum in silence every month, then left. I knew he was living with Cathy Yates now. She had a daughter from a previous marriage. Cathy made her call Artem “Dad.” They all lived in Artem’s flat. When Cathy found out I’d left, she moved in with her daughter from another city straight away. Cathy worshipped Artem — knitted him woolly socks and warm jumpers, cooked fancy meals. I learnt about all this later, and I’ll forever tease my husband about Cathy Yates. Back then, though, it felt like our marriage was done — like it had hit a dead end and crashed. But when Artem and I met for coffee to discuss the upcoming divorce, warm memories swept over us both. Artem confessed his undying love and remorse, admitting he had no idea how to get rid of clingy Cathy. I felt unbearably sorry for him. We got back together. For the record, Artem never found out about Rob. Cathy and her daughter left town for good. Seven blissful years passed. Then Artem got into a car accident — operations, rehab, walking with a stick. The recovery took two years, left him drained, and he began drinking heavily. He completely withdrew from life. It was torture watching it all. Trying to talk him round didn’t help — he wore himself and us down and refused all help. But at work, I found a shoulder to cry on — Paul. He listened to me during smoke breaks, strolled with me after work, offered comfort and encouragement. Paul was married, with his wife expecting their second child. I can’t fathom how we ended up in bed together. Madness. He was a head shorter than me, not my type at all! Still, Paul whisked me off to exhibitions, concerts, ballets. When his wife gave birth to a daughter, he stopped all amusements, quit our company, found another job. Maybe he thought — “out of sight, out of mind”? I never laid claim to him, so let him go easily. Paul had only dulled my pain for a while; I never meant to interfere in someone else’s love. Meanwhile, my husband drank himself senseless. Five years later, I’d bump into Paul by chance — he’d seriously propose marriage. I found it funny. Artem rallied briefly, left for work in the Czech Republic. I became the model wife and doting mum, heart focused solely on my family. He returned half a year later. We renovated the flat, splurged on new appliances. Artem finally fixed his car. Life should’ve been peachy. But no — he lost control and started drinking again. The cycle of hell repeated. His mates had to carry him home; he couldn’t walk by himself, only crawl at best. I scoured our neighbourhood looking for my errant husband, usually finding him asleep on a bench, pockets turned out. I’d drag him home. It was always something. One spring, I stood sadly at the bus stop as birds sang and the sun smiled. Suddenly, a suave voice whispered in my ear: “Perhaps I can ease your troubles?” I turned. My word — what a handsome, fragrant gent! And I was 45! Could I become a rose again? But I blushed like a schoolgirl. Thankfully, my bus arrived, and I hopped on, far away from temptation. He waved as I left. All day, I could only think about him. I played hard to get for two weeks… to keep up appearances. But Egor (the mysterious stranger) pressed his advantage — waiting every morning at the same bus stop. Soon, I was checking from afar if my charmer was there. Egor would beam and blow air kisses when he saw me. One day, he brought a huge bunch of red tulips. “Where am I supposed to take flowers to work?” I laughed. “I’ll be exposed in no time — guilty with nothing I’ve done!” Egor grinned: “Didn’t consider the ‘terrible’ consequences.” He handed the bouquet to an old lady watching our drama closely. Her eyes sparkled! “Thank you, love! May you find a passionate girlfriend!” I blushed. At least she didn’t wish him a young girlfriend — I’d have vanished into thin air with shame! Egor turned to me: “How about we share the blame, Nadine? You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the idea was tempting and timely. There was nothing left of my marriage then anyway. Artem was an immovable log, lost in a drunken stupor. Egor was a tee-total, ex-athlete (57) and a captivating conversationalist. Divorced. He had a magnetic charm! I plunged headlong into a love affair — a whirlpool of passion, for three years torn between home and Egor. My soul was in turmoil. When I finally wanted to end it, I couldn’t find the strength. Egor had a hold on me — mind, body, and soul! He’d stand next to me and I’d lose my breath — it was madness! Still, I knew it wouldn’t last. It wasn’t love. After heated rendezvous, I’d come home longing to cuddle my husband — even drunk, unkempt, but so familiar and dear. My own crust seemed sweeter than any stranger’s cake. That was my truth. Passion? It comes from “to suffer.” I wanted to finish suffering, leave Egor behind and return to my family, not just drift along in pleasure. My mind thought so, but my body kept falling into the sweet abyss. My son found out about Egor when he saw us in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I introduced them. They shook hands politely. Later, Stan looked at me over dinner, expecting an explanation. I joked it was a colleague meeting about a new project. “Uh-huh… in a restaurant,” Stan nodded knowingly. He didn’t judge, but begged me not to divorce his dad. “Don’t rush — maybe Dad will come to his senses.” I felt lost, astray, a black sheep. My divorced friend insisted: “Dump those scruffy lovers and settle down!” I listened. After all, she was working on her third husband. But I only managed to break it off when Egor tried to strike me. That was it. Just like my friend warned — “The sea is calm until you leave the shore…” The scales fell from my eyes. I was free. Three years of torment! At last, peace. Egor chased after me for ages everywhere, begging on his knees for forgiveness. I never wavered. My wise friend gifted me a mug: “You did the right thing!” As for Artem, he knew everything about my wild escapades. Egor phoned and told him. Egor believed I’d leave my family. Artem admitted: “When I listened to your admirer’s tales, I wanted to quietly die. It was all my fault! I lost my wife to the bottle. Idiot. What could I say to you?” Ten years have passed since then. Now we’ve two granddaughters. One day, Artem and I sat at the table drinking coffee. I gazed out the window. Artem gently took my hand: “Nadine, stop looking elsewhere. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”