Emily Taylor

“We’ll Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Freeloading In-Laws and Changed the Locks The intercom didn’t simply ring—it wailed for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The one day I’d planned to catch up on sleep after closing the quarter’s accounts, not entertain guests. On the screen: my husband’s sister, looking ready to storm the Bastille, three wild-haired kids huddled behind her. “Igor!” I barked without picking up. “Your family. Deal with it.” He shuffled out in inside-out shorts, knowing from my tone that my patience with his clan had reached bedrock. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood in the hall, arms crossed. My flat, my rules. This three-bed in central London was bought with blood, sweat, and a soul-sucking mortgage, years before I even met Igor—having strangers under my roof was the last thing I wanted. The door burst open, and in waltzed the caravan. Svetlana—sorry, let’s make her Susan—laden with bags, didn’t bother to say hello. She nudged past me like I was a sideboard. “Thank God, we made it!” she panted, dumping her bags onto my Italian tile. “Come on, put the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Susan,” I said, voice calm; Igor’s shoulders hunched. “Mind telling me what’s going on?” “What, Igor didn’t say?” She blinked all innocence. “We’ve got building works! Replacing pipes, tearing up floors, dust everywhere. Impossible to live there. We’ll just stay here a week. You’ve loads of space, don’t you?” I looked at my husband. He stared at the ceiling, bracing for execution. “A week,” I said coolly. “And I mean seven days. You sort your own food. The kids don’t run riot or touch my office. Silence after ten.” Susan rolled her eyes. “Bit strict, aren’t you, Anna? Warder or what? Fine, deal. Where do we sleep? Hopefully not on the floor?” Hell began. A “week” stretched to two. Then three. My pristine, designer apartment turned into a pigsty: muddy shoes piled in the hall, chaos in the kitchen—greasy stains on the counters, crumbs, sticky puddles. Susan ruled the place like she owned it. “Anna, your fridge is empty!” she declared one evening, eyeing the shelves. “The kids need yoghurts, and how about beef for me and Igor? You earn well, you could treat your in-laws.” “You have a card and shops. Knock yourself out. Deliveries are 24/7,” I replied, unmoved. “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. But the final straw came when I got home early and caught the kids in my bedroom: oldest bouncing on my expensive mattress, youngest drawing on the wall. With. My. Limited-edition. Lipstick. “Out!” I roared—kids scattered. Susan barely flinched at the redecorated wall and ruined lipstick. “They’re kids! It’ll wash off. Lipstick’s just coloured fat. You’ll buy another one. Oh, by the way—our builders are dragging it out, so we’ll stay until summer! You two must be bored here alone, anyway!” Igor hovered, silent. Useless. I fled to the bathroom before I committed a crime. That night, Susan left her phone on the kitchen table. A notification flashed up: “Susan, next month’s rent received. Tenants love the place—can they extend until August?” Then, “£800 received.” Click. There was no building work. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her circus into mine, getting free food, bills, and a passive income. Genius. On my dime. I snapped a photo of the message. For once, my hands were steady. “Igor, kitchen. Now.” I showed him the photo. He went white. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” “Mistake is that you haven’t kicked them out yet,” I said coldly. “Your move: have them gone by noon tomorrow, or you can all go. You, your mother, Susan, the lot.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can swing it.” The next morning Susan blithely announced she was “popping out for some lovely boots” (presumably with her rental money), leaving the kids with Igor. “Take the kids to the park. For a long time,” I told him. He questioned, I insisted. “I’m getting rid of some parasites.” Once they’d gone, I called a locksmith. And then the local bobby. Game over—clear-out begins. When Igor returned, the locks were changed and their stuff—crammed in five giant bin bags—was on the landing. By the time Susan waltzed back, loaded with shopping, I waited at the door with the constable. She shrieked, raged, tried to get past—“We have nowhere to live! I’ve got children!”—but the officer blocked her. She threatened to call Igor. I told her to ring. No answer. “Where’s your proof of residence?” the copper asked. “You don’t live here. Time to collect your things.” “Oh, and say hi to Marina,” I added. “Hope your tenants extend until August—otherwise, you’ll have to turf them out.” Susan paled. I continued, each word like a whip crack: “Take your bags and go. So help me, if I see you or your kids anywhere near my street again, I’ll call the tax man—undeclared rental income is a crime. And I’ll report a stolen ring. The police might find it in your bags.” The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know that. She quivered with rage. “You’re vile, Anna. God will judge you.” “God’s busy. And now, so am I—with my flat, finally all to myself.” When the lift doors closed on Susan, her shopping, and her busted little scheme, I felt only relief. Later, Igor came home, childless, guilt-ridden. “She screamed a lot,” he muttered. “I don’t care what rats shriek as they’re thrown off a ship,” I replied, sipping fresh coffee in silence, my kitchen spotless, fridge full of food I’d actually bought. “Did you know about the rental?” I asked. “No! Honestly, I didn’t!” “If you had, would you have told me?” He didn’t answer. “One more stunt from your family, and your suitcase will be next to theirs,” I finished. He nodded, nervously. He knew I wasn’t kidding. I took another sip. The coffee was perfect: hot, strong, and best of all, drunk in the peace and quiet of my own, reclaimed home. Long live the queen—crown fits just fine.

Well stay here till summer!: How I sent my husbands brazen relatives packing and changed the locks.

Someone Else’s Bride Valery was in high demand. He never advertised in newspapers or on TV, but his name and phone number were passed around by word of mouth—the grapevine did all the work. Need a host for a concert? No problem! Birthday party or wedding? Excellent! He’d even once presided over a kindergarten graduation, winning the hearts of both the children and their mums. It all began simply enough. A close mate got married, but the emcee they’d booked in advance didn’t show up—turns out he’d gone on a bender. With no time to find anyone else, Valery grabbed the microphone. At school he’d taken part in amateur dramatics, joined the school theatre club, and at university he was always a star of Open Mic Night and student comedy contests. Impromptu hosting suited him, and right there, in the function hall, two people asked if he could run their events as well. After graduating, Valery got a job at one of the city’s research institutions earning next to nothing. His first fees as an entertainer inspired him—he took on every event, enjoying not only the financial boost but also a great sense of satisfaction. Soon his earnings from hosting outstripped his research salary by nearly tenfold. After a year, Valery took the plunge: he left the institute, used his savings to buy quality equipment, registered as self-employed, and officially went into show business. He started taking singing lessons, too—he already had a voice and an ear for music. Soon he was a singing host, performing as a lounge singer three nights a week at a posh restaurant. Now, approaching 30, Valery was good-looking, fairly well off, and had built a reputation as a solid singer, DJ, and top-notch host who could save any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him; any girl he fancied was up for it. But his friends were settling down and having kids, and gradually Valery began to yearn for quiet, family happiness. Problem was, there was nobody he wanted it with! The easy girls were fine for a fling, but he longed for something once and for all, for life. “You need to meet someone young, raise her ‘just right,’ and then marry her when she turns 18. That’s the ideal wife right there!” he half-joked. He started taking on bookings for school proms, hoping to spot his future partner. But modern girls disappointed him—they weren’t what he’d imagined. Still, Valery wasn’t discouraged. He kept an eye on the young ones, as he jokingly put it, “hunting rare game.” That’s when fate decided to have a laugh at my cousin’s expense. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang up, said she’d got his details from friends: “We need a host for a wedding. Are you free June 17th? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They met. And right then, according to Valery, he understood the saying “the ground slipped from under my feet.” The woman, who introduced herself as Christina, was dazzling—he’d never seen anyone quite like her up close. She was articulate, intelligent, all business, listed exactly what was needed. Valery found himself unable to look away. Someone was very lucky indeed—not only was she beautiful, she was obviously clever too. A rare combination! At first glance she seemed around 25, maybe a little older. But in conversation she mentioned she’d been in the Young Socialists, so she had to be at least 40! They sorted out all the details, came to an agreement, and drew up a contract, though Christina protested: “No need, I trust you—you come highly recommended!” Valery always worked with contracts, making sure both he and his clients stuck rigidly to the terms. He insisted: “I need to file paperwork for tax—can’t have any problems.” In truth, he just wanted physical proof that Christina really existed, that this wasn’t a dream. Her phone pinged—a message. “Oh, my fiancé’s here to pick me up. Do you need a lift?” Valery said no but followed her out to the car park. He always did this if the couple arrived separately, to size up how they acted around each other. But this time, jealousy rather than curiosity drove him. The groom surprised him—he’d pictured a man of about forty, to match the bride. But out of the car bounced a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christina, everything alright?” She smiled, as if to say, “Why wouldn’t it be?” and got into the car. The groom turned to Valery: “You’re the one hosting our wedding? Great, Slava’s told me you’re the best,” he said, giving Valery a handshake. “Sorry, forgot to introduce myself—Christina will scold me later. I’m Robert, the groom.” More than anything, Valery wanted to punch this “Robert, the groom,” and wipe that smug smile off his face, but instead he just shook his hand. “Valery. Nice to meet you.” From that moment, Valery lost all peace and sleep. He obsessed over any excuse to call Christina, to hear her voice, to meet her again. The wedding day loomed closer and Valery thought he was losing his mind. His one confidant needled him: “Whatever happened to the schoolgirls you were going to raise into ideal wives?” Valery just waved him off: “Forget that. Christina’s perfect—she’s all I want now!” “Then tell her,” his friend shrugged, but got a sharp reply: “Are you mad? She’s getting married, so she must love him. What would she want with me and my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would drop by, beaming: “Christina asked me to drop this off for you…” Valery hated him in those moments, barely able to hold back a retort. He even considered backing out of the wedding, reputation be damned—but that would mean never seeing Christina again. He caved in cowardly fear. Two days before the wedding, Christina dropped round to Valery’s flat—she said, “just to polish the script, make sure everything’s perfect.” His office was undergoing renovations, so their meeting moved to his home. They chatted about nothing important, laughed, both on top form. Script done, Valery poured a glass of prosecco for a toast. “To the perfect wedding.” Christina laughed: “Why not!” She was radiant, and Valery, buoyed by bubbles, kissed her. And, to his shock, she kissed him back. The world turned upside down. Valery woke with a start. He looked around—had he imagined the best night of his life? No sight of Christina, but her perfume lingered on a pillow. So it was real… In turmoil, he called her. “Hey…” She answered brightly: “Hi! How are you? Sorry I ducked out early, but you know how it is—the wedding’s tomorrow!” “So…the wedding’s still on?” he croaked. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s grand!” Was she really so cynical? How could she look her groom in the eye after last night? Valery was torn—should he ruin the wedding? Did he even want such a heartless woman? Answer: Yes. Any form of her. Next day, he arrived at the venue early. The decorators were finishing up, throwing him flirty glances. Then— He couldn’t believe it—Christina came up to him. “Hi. I ran off straight after the ceremony—just wanted to see you,” she flashed a dazzling smile. “You alright, Valery?” “I don’t get it,” he stammered. “So, the ceremony’s over? Then you legged it?” “Yeah, silly. Why ride around with the kids when I could spend time with you? Or aren’t you happy to see me?” “Wait, what kids? Aren’t you the bride?” Christina stared at him for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. It was a pure, joyful sound, and Valery couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter Kiera is the bride—she’s at university in Leeds, just flew in yesterday,” she stopped laughing, “Did you think I was the bride? And that I’d sleep around two nights before my wedding? Charming.” Only then did it dawn on Valery—Christina never once said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Robert never called her “Kiera,” only “Christina” and always formally. How had he not noticed? He felt foolish… and then he finally asked the real question: “And you? Are you… free?” She nodded. He blurted out: “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was stunning, the host outdid himself, the guests were thrilled. The young couple thanked Valery: “Thank you so much! We’ve no idea how to repay you for such an amazing evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” said Christina, joining them. “You two go on—the limo’s waiting. I’ll keep an eye on things here.” The news—Valery marrying a woman nine years his senior—spread quickly among the family. People were wary at first, but after meeting the bride everyone agreed: “How could you not fall for someone like that?” Kiera and Christina both gave birth within a fortnight of each other.

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