My name is Victoria, and I live in London with my husband, Thomas. Our story began twelve years ago when I first arrived in the capital to study at university. After graduating, I found a job, and soon fate brought me to Thomas. We dated for a year before getting married.
The early years of our life together were spent at his parents’ house, saving every pound to put toward our own place. Finally, we bought a cosy two-bedroom flat—though with a mortgage that will take years to pay off. Still, it was ours, our little fortress.
You’d think the dream had come true—live and be happy. But with the flat came a flood of unexpected guests. Relatives—who else?—started arriving in London one after another, to “visit us” and “see the city.” Of course, none of them fancied paying for a hotel—after all, we had a “two-bed,” so surely there was room for everyone…
This summer, after years without a proper holiday, Thomas and I finally managed to align our leave and book a trip. We’d dreamed of the seaside for ages. Tickets for the 15th of June were bought, and I threw myself into packing—suitcases, tickets, plans.
Then, on the 10th, my cousin Emily called. Cheery as anything:
*”Vicky, we’ve had a brilliant idea! We’re coming to see you on the 20th—me, my husband, and our boy! You’ll open the door for us, won’t you?”*
I paused, then calmly explained:
*”Em, Thomas and I are going to the coast. We won’t be home.”*
Her response, to put it mildly, was unexpected:
*”What do you mean, the coast?! Cancel your tickets! We haven’t seen you in nearly a year! Family comes first!”*
I sighed and stood firm:
*”No. We’re going on holiday as planned. Tickets are bought, bags are packed. I’m not cancelling, not even for you, Em.”*
She slammed the phone down. I shrugged and went back to packing. We flew out on the 15th, just as we’d intended. Sun, sand, bliss.
Then, on the evening of the 20th, my phone rang. Emily’s number. Without thinking, I answered—only to be met with shrieks:
*”Victoria! Where on earth are you?! We’re at your door, ringing your bell, and you’re not here! This is outrageous!”*
I replied, perfectly calm:
*”We’re at the seaside, Em. I warned you.”*
*”I thought you were joking! Just to put us off!”*
*”No, I was serious.”*
*”What are we supposed to do now?!”*
*”Book a hotel. Or go home.”*
*”We haven’t got the money for a hotel!”*
*”Then figure it out. You’re grown-ups. I did my part—I told you in advance.”*
And that was that—Emily hung up again. She hasn’t called since.
Later, I found out she’d spun this “horrific tale” to the whole family—how ungrateful and heartless I was, abandoning my own flesh and blood with nowhere to stay! Worst of all, nearly everyone took her side. They reckon I acted wrongly, that I should’ve “made it work” for the sake of guests.
But I stand by it—what exactly did I do wrong? Wanting a proper holiday with my husband after years of hard work? Giving fair warning?
Emily had all the facts, time to adjust her plans, every chance to change course. As for the money for a hotel—that’s her problem, not my responsibility.
And here’s what I’ve learned from all this: sometimes, even family doesn’t respect your boundaries. They expect you to always sacrifice for their convenience. And if you don’t—well, then you’re the villain.
No. I won’t apologise for choosing myself. Not to anyone.
So—what do you think? Was I right?
