“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Finally Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Relatives, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My Home The intercom didn’t just buzz – it howled, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The only day I’d planned a lie-in after closing the quarterly report, and definitely not a day for visitors. On the video screen appeared my sister-in-law’s face. Svetlana, my husband Igor’s sister, looked ready to storm the barricades, with three wild-haired kids bobbing in the background. “Igor!” I called without picking up. “Your family’s here. Deal with it.” He shuffled out of the bedroom pulling his shorts on backwards, knowing from my tone that my patience for his relatives was long gone. While he mumbled into the intercom, I waited arms crossed in my own hallway—my flat, my rules. I’d bought this central London three-bed years before we got married, slaved through the mortgage, and the last thing I wanted was a house full of strangers. The door banged open and in tumbled the clan. Svetlana, weighed down with bags, didn’t even greet me—just shouldered past like I was a piece of furniture. “Thank goodness we made it!” she announced, dropping her bags right onto my Italian tiles. “Alina, why are you rooted at the door? Put the kettle on, the kids are starving after the journey.” “Svetlana,” I said evenly, while Igor shrank into his shoulders. “What’s going on?” “What, he didn’t tell you?” she answered, immediately in innocent mode. “We’re having major renovations! New pipes, new floors, impossible to live at home, dust everywhere. We’ll just stay with you for a week. Plenty of space in this palace of yours, isn’t there?” I turned to Igor, who suddenly found the ceiling fascinating, clearly dreading what would come later. “Igor?” “Oh come on, Alina,” he pleaded, “She’s my sister. Where are they supposed to go? Just a week.” “One week,” I replied. “Seven days. You feed yourselves, no running around the flat, no touching the walls, keep away from my office, and absolute silence after ten.” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “You’re such a fun sponge, Alina. Alcatraz couldn’t compete. Anyway, where do we sleep? Not on the floor, I hope?” And so began the nightmare. A week turned to two. Then three. My spotless flat designed with care now resembled a barn. The hallway was a hazard of filthy shoes, the kitchen a disaster zone: greasy stains on quartz, crumbs, sticky puddles. Svetlana behaved like a lady of the manor, and I was the staff. “Alina, why’s the fridge empty?” she complained one night. “The kids need yogurts, and Igor and I want meat. Can’t you spoil your relatives a bit, now you’re on such a good salary?” “You’ve got a bank card and shops,” I replied, not looking up from my laptop. “Delivery’s 24/7.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. “Can’t take your money with you to the grave, you know.” It wasn’t even the worst. One day coming home early, I found my nephews in my bedroom. The eldest bouncing on my extortionate mattress, the youngest drawing on my bedroom wall. With my limited edition Tom Ford lipstick. “OUT!” I barked, scattering the children. Svetlana rushed in, saw the ruined wallpaper and broken lipstick and just shrugged. “What’s the fuss? They’re kids! It’s just a mark on the wall. You’ll sort it. It’s only a lipstick. Buy a new one, you won’t go broke. Oh, by the way, we’ve realised our builders are useless, so we’re probably here until the summer. Anyway, it must be nice for you, not so lonely with all of us around!” Igor quietly stood by, saying nothing. Pathetic. I left for the bathroom before I did something criminal. That evening, Svetlana went to shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. The screen lit up: “Marina Lettings – Svetlana, sent you next month’s rent; the tenants are happy, asking if they can stay through August.” Then her bank pinged: “+£800 received.” Everything clicked. There was no renovation. She’d rented out her own place for easy money and decided to live off me—free food, free bills, and a profitable passive income. All at my expense. I snapped a photo of her screen. My hands didn’t tremble; I’d never been calmer. “Igor, kitchen. Now.” When he saw the photo, the blood drained from his face. “It might be a mistake, Alina…” “The only mistake here is you not kicking them out. They’re gone by lunchtime tomorrow, or you’re all out. You, your mum, your sister—the lot of you.” “But where will they go?” “I don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can afford it.” In the morning, Svetlana breezed out for a shopping spree—clearly spending her rent windfall—leaving the kids with Igor. As soon as the door shut: “Igor, take the kids out for a long walk. I’m ‘dealing with pests.’” As soon as they left, I called an emergency locksmith, then our local police station. Hospitality was over. It was time for a clean sweep. While the locksmith fitted a monster lock, I gathered up everything: Svetlana’s bras, kids’ tights, scattered toys, all into big black sacks. I didn’t fold—I stuffed. Her cosmetics, all of it. Within forty minutes, there was a pile by the door: five bin bags and two suitcases. When the police officer arrived, I produced all my documents, proving sole ownership. “Relatives?” he asked. “Ex-relatives,” I said. “Property negotiations are over.” Svetlana returned smiling, arms full of designer shopping, until she saw the pile and me with a copper. “What the hell, Alina? You’ve lost it! Where’s Igor? I’m calling him!” “Go ahead. He’s explaining to his kids why their mum is so enterprising.” She redialled; voicemail. Maybe at last Igor developed a backbone—or just feared divorce (and leaving with nothing). “You can’t do this! We’ve nowhere to go! I have children!” “Don’t lie. Give Marina my regards. See if your tenants want to extend to August, or if you’ll be moving back in yourself.” She froze, colour draining from her face. “Lock your phone next time, entrepreneur. You’ve lived off me for a month, eating my food, trashing my home, while letting your own for profit so you can save for a new car? Nice try. But it’s over.” She snatched her bags, swearing, hands shaking as she called a taxi. The lift doors closed behind her, taking all her baggage—literally and figuratively. I turned to the copper: “Thanks for the help.” “Just get decent locks,” he grinned. I locked the door. The satisfying click of the new lock was music to my ears. The smell of disinfectant lingered—clean-up crew opening every room. Igor returned, alone. He looked around warily. “Alina… she’s gone.” “I know.” “She was shouting awful things…” “I don’t care what rats scream as they’re chased off a sinking ship.” I sat in my spotless kitchen, drinking coffee from my own unbroken mug. The lipstick-marks were scrubbed away; only my food in the fridge. “You knew about the letting?” “No! Honestly, Alina! If I’d known—” “You’d have said nothing. Remember this, Igor: one more stunt from your family and your bags go out with theirs. Understood?” He nodded, eyes wide. He knew I meant it. I took a long sip of coffee. It was perfect—hot, strong, and, most importantly, enjoyed in the peace and quiet of my very own home. My crown? It fit just right.

The intercom didnt just ringit screeched, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: seven in the morning, Saturday. The only day Id planned to have a lie-in after slogging through the quarterly report, not to host visitors. My husbands sister, Charlotte, stared back at me from the video screen, looking as if she were about to storm the Tower of London. Three tousled children huddled behind her.

James! I shouted, without even picking up the receiver. Its your lot. Sort it out.

James tumbled out of the bedroom, wrestling with his shorts and sleep. He knew from my tone that my patience for his family had officially worn thin. While he mumbled something into the intercom, I planted myself firmly in the hallway, arms crossed. My flatmy rules. Id bought this three-bed in central London two years before we got married, paid off the mortgage by grafting double shifts, and the last thing I wanted was uninvited houseguests.

The door swung open and the whole pack tumbled in. Charlotte, weighed down with bags, didnt even bother with a greetingshe just shoved past me as if I were a side table.

Oh, thank goodness, weve made it, she exhaled, dumping her bags straight onto my Italian ceramic tiles. Alice, why are you blocking the doorway? On you go, put the kettle onthe kids are starving after the journey.

Charlotte, I replied flatly, my voice so clipped that James shrank into his shoulders. Whats going on?

Didnt James tell you? she widened her eyes, donning her innocent look. Were doing up the whole housepipes out, floorboards up, clouds of dust everywhere. Cant live in that. Well just stay here for a week. Youve got loads of space. All these lovely rooms going spare.

I shot a look at my husband, who busied himself with the light fixture, knowing full well he was in for it later.

James?

Alice, come on, its my sister. Where are they supposed to go, with the children and all that building dust? Just for a week.

One week, I said, every syllable sharp. Exactly seven days. Youre sorting your own food, the children dont run around, nobody touches the walls, and no one gets near my study. And quiet after ten at night.

Charlotte snorted and rolled her eyes. Oh, youre such a killjoy, Alice. Like youre running a prison. Fine, whatever. Where are we sleeping? I hope its not the floor.

That was when the nightmare began.

Just a week turned into two. Then three. My precious flatpainstakingly styled with the decoratordescended into a tip. The hallway was always a pile of muddy shoes, the kitchen a chaos of greasy counter tops, crumbs, and sticky puddles. Charlotte behaved not as a guest, but as a baroness inconvenienced by her staff.

Alice, is the fridge supposed to be empty? she barked one evening, scowling into the bare shelves. Kids need yoghurts, and wed fancy a roast now and then, wouldnt we, James? You earn well enough to feed family.

Youve got a debit card. Tescos open all hours. Go on, help yourself, I replied, eyes glued to my laptop.

Stingy much? she muttered, slamming the fridge so hard the jars rattled. You cant take it with you, you know.

But that wasnt what finally broke me. One evening, coming home earlier than usual, I discovered my nieces and nephews in my bedroom. The eldest was trampolining on my orthopaedic mattressone that cost as much as a weekend in Cornwall. The youngest? She was busily drawing all over my wall. With my Tom Ford lipstick. A limited edition.

OUT! I roared, and the kids scattered.

Charlotte rushed in at the commotion. She glanced at the marked wallpaper and the smashed lipstick, only to throw up her hands.

Why are you shouting? Theyre kids! Its just a little mark, wipe it off. The lipsticks only a bit of wax and colour, youll buy another. Anyway, listen, the builders are uselessits dragging on. Well probably be here till summer. You two are so quiet on your own, surely you dont mind a bit of company!

James stood silently beside her. Absolutely useless.

I didnt say a word. I retreated to the bathroom to avoid committing assault.

That evening, Charlotte went to shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. The screen lit up with a WhatsApp notification. I dont snoop on peoples messages, but this one flashed big and bold on her locked screenfrom Marina Lettings:

Charlotte, received next months rent. Tenants are happy, wondering if they can extend through August?

Immediately followed by a banking notification: Account credited: +£810.

Everything snapped into place. There was no renovation. The cheeky cow had let out her own place for cashprobably per week or per monthand moved in with me to pocket the rent, save on bills and food, and make a tidy sum. Her business plan was genius. At my expense.

I took a photo of her screen. My hands didnt shake. In fact, I felt cool, perfectly clear-headed.

James, can you come into the kitchen? I called.

When he entered, I showed him the photo. He read it, first turning red, then pale.

Maybe its a misunderstanding, Alice?

No, a misunderstanding would be you havent told them to leave yet, I said calmly. You have a choice. Either theyre gone by lunchtime tomorrow or you all go. Your mum, your sister, all of you.

Butwhere will they go?

I dont care. Under a bridge for all I care. Or the Savoy, if she can afford it.

The next morning, Charlotte announced she was off shoppingshed spotted some fabulous boots (presumably with her rent windfall). She left the children with James, whod taken the day off.

I waited until the door clicked behind her.

James, take the kids and go to the park. For a long walk.

Why?

Because Im about to fumigate the place.

The second they left, I got on the phone. First, to the locksmith. Then, to the local police officer.

The hospitality game was over. Time to reclaim my territory.

Maybe its a misunderstanding, Alice? Jamess question echoed in my mind as the locksmith quickly changed the barrel.

No misunderstandings. Only cold, hard logic.

The locksmitha burly bloke with a tattoo on his forearmworked fast.

Nice door, he remarked. But this lockno ones getting in without an angle grinder.

Thats exactly what I need. Security, I said.

I bank transferred a sum big enough to buy a decent dinner out. Peace of mind was worth every penny. Then, time to tackle their stuffno sentimentality. Heavy-duty black rubbish sacks, 120 litres each, were soon crammed with Charlottes bras, childrens tights, abandoned toys. Her beauty products swept carelessly from my bathroom shelf into a bag with one motion.

Seven bin-bags later, plus two bulging suitcases, were lined up in the corridor. When the lift chimed to reveal the police officer, I was ready, documents in hand.

Morning, constable, I said, handing over the Land Registry printout and my passport. Im the sole owner, the only one registered here. Any attempt to enter by these people is trespass. Please note that.

He glanced through the papers, looking bored.

Relatives?

Not anymore, I smirked. Lets call it a domestic property dispute. Itsescalated.

Charlotte swaggered out of the lift an hour later, sparkling from her shopping spree. The smile slid from her face as she saw the bags, and me, standing on the threshold with a policeman.

Whats this? she shrieked, jabbing a finger at the sacks. Alice, have you lost the plot? Thats my stuff!

Exactly. Your stuff. Time to take it and leave. Hotels closed.

She tried to push past, but the constable blocked her way.

Madam, do you reside here? Do you have documentation?

I Im his sister! Were guests! she rounded on me, red blotches appearing on her face. What are you playing at, you silly cow? Wheres James? Ill ring him now, wait till he hears this!

Go ahead. Hes busy explaining to your kids why their mum is so enterprising.

Charlotte furiously dialled. Voicemailagain and again. James, it seemed, had finally grown a backbone. Or perhaps he just feared divorce and splitting up assets, which hed get precisely none of.

Youve no right! she shrieked, tossing her shopping down. A shoebox clattered onto the floor. Our house is being renovated! Weve nowhere to go! Ive got children!

Dont lie. I stepped forward, eyes locked onto hers. Send my regards to Marina, and ask if your tenants will stay through August. Or maybe youll have to kick them out and live there yourself?

Charlotte froze, mouth open, instantly deflated.

How did

Lock your phone next time, businesswoman. You scrounged for a month, eating my food, ruining my home décor, while letting out your own flat to save for a new car? Impressive. But listen very carefully.

My words cracked through the silence of the stairwell.

Youll take your bags and go. If I see you or your brood anywhere near my flat ever again, Ill contact the taxmanundeclared rental income, no tenancy agreement, theyll be interested. And Ill report theft. Im missing a gold ring. Do you know where it will be foundif the police decide to check your bags?

The ring, of course, was safe in my personal safe. But she didnt know that. She turned so pale her foundation looked like a clay mask.

You nasty piece of work, Alice, she spat. God will judge you for this.

Gods busy, I shot back. But Im free. And sos my flat.

She dragged her bags away, swearing as she tried to hail a cab. The policeman watched, loaded with a mixture of boredom and relief that he didnt need to fill out any forms.

As the lift doors clicked shut behind Charlotte and her dreams, I turned to the constable.

Thanks for your help.

Any time. But invest in a good lock and you wont need us.

Back in the flat, I closed the door. The new locks click was solid, reassuring. The scent of bleach filled the airthe cleaning crew had finished the kitchen and moved on to my bedroom.

James returned two hours later. Alone. Hed handed Charlotte the children downstairs as she was packing up her cab. He came in, glancing nervously around.

Alice shes left.

I know.

She said some dreadful things about you

I couldnt care less what rats scream as theyre kicked off a ship.

I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of fresh, hot coffeemy favourite, unchipped mug. No more lipstick scribbles on the wallstheyd been scrubbed clean. The fridge was mine again.

Did you know about the subletting? I asked, without looking at him.

No! Honestly, Alice, I swear. If I had

If you had, youd have kept quiet. I stated. Listen carefully, James. This was the last time. Next stunt from your relatives, and your bags will be out with theirs. Understood?

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

I took a long sip of coffee.

It was blisshot, strong, and most importantly, enjoyed in perfect, peaceful silence in my own home.

No ones taking my crown. Not now. It fits just right.