“My Name’s Victoria, and This Isn’t a B&B!”—How One Family Visit Turned into a Right Royal Row
My name’s Victoria, and I live in London with my husband, Thomas. Our story began twelve years ago when I moved to the capital for university. After graduating, I landed a job, and fate soon introduced me to Thomas. We dated for about a year before tying the knot—quite traditional, really.
The early years of our marriage were spent at his parents’ house, scrimping every penny to save for our own place. Finally, we bought a cosy two-bed flat—albeit with a mortgage that’ll haunt us for years—but still, it was ours. Our little fortress.
You’d think that’d be the happy ending, wouldn’t you? But no sooner had we got the keys than the Great Relative Invasion began. One after another, they descended upon London, all insisting they just *had* to “pop in” and “see the sights.” Not one offered to book a hotel—why would they, when we’ve got a “spare room” (read: a sofa that unfolds into something vaguely resembling a bed)?
This summer, after years without a proper holiday, Thomas and I miraculously aligned our leave dates. We’d dreamed of a seaside getaway for ages. Booked tickets for the 15th of June, and I threw myself into packing—suitcases, itineraries, the lot.
Then, on the 10th, my cousin Olivia rang, chirpy as you please:
“Vicky, we’ve had the most brilliant idea! We’re coming to yours on the 20th—me, hubby, and the little one! You’ll leave the kettle on, won’t you?”
I paused, then calmly replied, “Liv, we’re off to Brighton. We won’t be home.”
Her response? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly gracious.
“Brighton?! Don’t be daft—just cancel! We haven’t seen you in ages! Family comes first!”
I took a deep breath. “No. We’re going on holiday, as planned. Tickets bought, bags packed. Not even for you, Liv.”
*Click.* She hung up. I shrugged and went back to folding swimsuits. On the 15th, we left, just as intended. Sunshine, ice cream, bliss.
Then, the evening of the 20th, my phone rings. Olivia’s number. I answer—and am met with screeching.
“Victoria! Where *are* you?! We’re outside your flat, ringing the bell, and there’s no one here! This is outrageous!”
I kept my voice steady. “We’re in Brighton, Liv. I did warn you.”
“I thought you were joking! Just to put us off!”
“No, I was dead serious.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do *now*?!”
“Book a hotel. Or go home.”
“We can’t *afford* a hotel!”
“That’s your problem, not mine. You’re grown-ups. I gave you fair warning.”
*Click.* She hung up again. Haven’t heard from her since.
Later, I found out she’d spun quite the tale to the rest of the family—painted me as some heartless wretch who’d “abandoned” them. And the kicker? Most of them took her side. Apparently, I should’ve “made it work” for the sake of *hospitality*.
But here’s what I reckon: Where exactly did I go wrong? Fancying a holiday after years of grinding? Giving *ample* notice? Olivia had all the facts, time to adjust, and a *choice*. If she couldn’t budget for a Travelodge, that’s on her.
This whole kerfuffle taught me something: Sometimes, even family forget you’ve got boundaries. They expect you to drop everything for their convenience—and if you don’t, suddenly *you’re* the villain.
Well, I’m done apologising for choosing myself. No regrets.
So—was I in the wrong? Or just the only one with a backbone?
