My brother, Edward, has been married for six years. Since then, neither I nor our parents have ever stepped foot inside their home. Every holiday, birthday, or family gathering always happens at our parents’ spacious house on the outskirts of Manchester. Mum cooks mountains of food, sets the table, and still sends Edward and his wife, Eleanor, home with containers stuffed full of homemade shepherd’s pie and puddings.
When Edward first got married, Eleanor’s birthday came around a few months later. Mum, full of excitement, decided to surprise her—we bought a cake, picked out a lovely gift, and headed over. Mum called to let her know, but Eleanor coldly replied she wasn’t planning to celebrate. Undeterred, Mum insisted, *“We’ll just pop in for tea and cake! You won’t have to lift a finger, love!”*
We went anyway. But instead of a warm welcome, we were stunned—Eleanor met us outside, muttering that the flat “wasn’t tidy,” and refused to let us in. Dumbfounded, we handed her the cake and present right there on the doorstep before leaving. Since then, every celebration has been held at Mum’s, and we try not to think about that awkward moment.
Eleanor once outright told our parents, *“You’ve got such a big house—plenty of space for guests! Ours is just a tiny flat—where would we fit everyone?”* I nearly lost my temper. Is a one-bed flat really too small to host your husband’s parents and sister? It’s not a crowd—just three people! But we bit our tongues, not wanting to stir trouble.
Now Eleanor’s five months pregnant—our parents’ first grandchild—and Mum’s beside herself with worry. She keeps ringing Edward, asking how Eleanor’s feeling, if she needs anything. Then we found out Eleanor quit her job early in the pregnancy. Mum panicked: *“Is she unwell? Does she need my help?”* Edward assured us she was fine, just “taking it easy.” We were baffled. Edward and Eleanor always lived lavishly—fancy dinners, weekend getaways, designer clothes. No mortgage either—the flat was inherited from Eleanor’s gran—so they splurged on luxuries. But now, with one income gone, their lifestyle’s crumbling. Edward tried explaining they needed to cut back, but Eleanor won’t give up her indulgences.
She admitted she quit out of fear of “catching something at work.” Understandable, but now their budget’s stretched thin, and she still demands the same extravagance. Then, amidst all this, Edward unexpectedly invited us to his birthday—at their place! Mum and Dad were shocked. Dad even joked, *“Will I finally get to taste my daughter-in-law’s cooking?”*
Mum was thrilled, picturing a cosy family evening. I called Eleanor to confirm details, but instead of a calm chat, I got hysterics. Sobbing, she wailed, *“I don’t want guests! I’ll have to clean, cook! I’m pregnant—it’s too much!”* I tried soothing her: *“Love, just boil some potatoes, toss a salad, roast a chicken—done. We’ll bring cake. It’s only five people—what’s the fuss?”* I even suggested ordering takeaway to make it easier. But she kept whining about cleaning. I snapped: *“It’s a one-bed flat! Is hoovering really that hard? Do you only scrub the floors when company comes?”*
Finally, I gave an ultimatum: *“If you really don’t want us, we won’t come. We’ll ring Edward, wish him happy birthday, and leave it.”*
Mum agreed when I told her. When we mentioned it to Edward, he exploded: *“Eleanor doesn’t work—she’s home all day! Can’t she manage one meal and a bit of tidying? You’re coming! We can’t afford a cleaner or takeaways—she’ll have to sort it herself!”*
His words hung like storm clouds. Now we’ve all fallen out, and any desire to go has vanished. The thought of Eleanor’s sour face, sighing and rolling her eyes all evening, is hardly appealing. We don’t want to feel unwelcome in my own brother’s home.
Yet it breaks my heart to think we’ll hurt Edward. He’s been looking forward to this—to having family over, just once. How can we refuse? It’s his day, and he’s not to blame for his wife’s dramatics. We’re torn: swallow our pride and go, risking a miserable night, or stay away and crush him. There’s no good answer, only this sinking feeling as the date creeps closer, dragging us deeper into this mess. What do you do when love for your brother clashes with loathing for his wife? We don’t know. But time’s running out.
