“My name is Victoria, and I live in London with my husband, Oliver. Our story began twelve years ago when I moved to the capital to study at university. After graduating, I found a job, and soon fate brought me to Oliver. We dated for about a year before tying the knot.
The early years of our marriage were spent in his parents’ house, saving every penny to buy our own place. Finally, we managed to purchase a cosy two-bedroom flat—though with a mortgage that would take years to pay off. Still, it was ours, our little sanctuary.
You’d think we’d be happy, living the dream. But along with the keys came an avalanche of unexpected guests. Relatives—no surprises there—started arriving in London one after another, insisting they were just ‘popping in to say hello’ and ‘see the sights.’ Of course, none of them wanted to pay for a hotel—why bother, when we had a spare room?
This summer, after years without a proper holiday, Oliver and I finally coordinated our leave. We’d dreamed of the seaside for ages. Tickets were booked for the 15th of June, and I threw myself into preparations—packing, itineraries, and excitement.
Then, on the 10th of June, my cousin Emily called, chirpy as ever:
‘Vicky, guess what? We’ve decided—we’re coming to visit on the 20th! Me, my husband, and our little boy! You’ll let us in, won’t you?’
For a second, I froze. Then, calmly, I explained:
‘Emily, Oliver and I are going away. We won’t be home.’
Her reply? Not what I expected.
‘What do you mean, going away? Just cancel it! We haven’t seen you in nearly a year! Family comes first!’
I took a deep breath and stood firm.
‘No. We’re going on holiday, as planned. Tickets are bought, suitcases packed. I’m not cancelling for you, Emily.’
She slammed the phone down. I shrugged and went back to packing. On the 15th, we flew out—sun, sand, bliss.
Then, on the evening of the 20th, my phone rang. Emily’s number. Instinct made me pick up—only to be met with shrieking:
‘Victoria! Where the hell are you? We’re outside your flat, ringing the bell, and no one’s home! This is outrageous!’
I kept my voice steady.
‘We’re at the seaside, Emily. I warned you.’
‘I thought you were joking! To put me off coming!’
‘No. I meant it.’
‘So what are we supposed to do now?’
‘Book a hotel. Or go home.’
‘We can’t afford a hotel!’
‘Then figure it out. You’re adults. I did my part—I told you.’
The call ended there. Emily hung up. She hasn’t rung since.
Later, I found out she’d spun the tale to the whole family—how heartless I was, abandoning my own blood with nowhere to stay. The worst part? Most of them took her side. They think I was in the wrong, that I should have ‘made it work’ for the sake of guests.
But I stand by it—where was my fault? In wanting, after years of hard work, to finally take a holiday with my husband? In giving fair warning?
Emily had all the information. Time to adjust. The lack of money for a hotel? Her problem, not mine.
And you know what I realised? Sometimes, even family won’t respect your boundaries. They expect you to sacrifice yourself for their convenience. And if you don’t? You’re the villain.
Well, I won’t apologise for choosing myself. Not anymore.
What do you think—was I right?”
