“Would you mind boxing that up for us?” – The visit I will never forget.
Sometimes, life brings encounters that leave you wondering for days—was it a joke or an unsettling reality? That’s exactly how I felt after the recent visit from my husband’s colleague’s family, a moment I now recall with a shiver down my spine and a firm vow to never again invite “good-natured strangers” into my home.
We live in Sheffield. I’m a homebody, and our flat is modest but cosy, filled with little touches that make it ours. Our daughter, Poppy, keeps our days busy enough, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. My husband, James, is sociable—always sharing work stories, usually about banter between colleagues, pranks, or covering shifts. One name came up often: David, a cheerful, dependable chap, always ready to help out. James thought highly of him. So when he mentioned David and his family wanted to pop by, I didn’t object—though I was surprised. We’d never been close.
Then, one evening, they arrived on our doorstep: David, his wife, Gemma, and their youngest daughter, close in age to Poppy. I was happy the girls could play together. At first, things seemed fine. Gemma seemed pleasant, smiling… until she spoke. And all she spoke about was children—children, children, children. They had a brood of three, and according to her, the world owed them everything. The government should pay more, employers should grant leave on demand, grandparents should be on permanent babysitting duty.
I nodded along, but inside, my blood simmered. I wanted to ask, “Did you think about any of this before having three kids?” One child was enough for us—financially, emotionally, physically. But they’d chosen three, and now everyone was to blame—except them.
I bit my tongue. I don’t like confrontation in my own home. And the girls were playing nicely, while James seemed pleased with the gathering. As a host, I’d prepared properly—roast chicken, salads, sides, even a homemade apple pie. I set the table, smiled, listened more than I ate. The guests barely touched their plates. Maybe they’re shy, I thought.
How wrong I was.
As dinner wound down, I quietly rejoiced at the leftovers—no cooking tomorrow!—when Gemma set down her glass of squash and said, as casually as ordering a takeaway:
“Would you mind boxing that up for us? The chicken, the salads… we didn’t eat much so we could take it home. Don’t fancy cooking this weekend.”
Silence. I froze. Had she really just said that? No hesitation, no joke. She genuinely expected me to hand over our dinner in takeaway containers!
I’d never packed food for guests—that wasn’t the done thing. You serve, they eat. But for a guest to demand leftovers? With the ease of someone collecting a meal deal?
I glanced at James. He looked at his plate. He knew, too. Forcing a smile, I muttered, “Box it up? I—I don’t have containers, just bags…”
Gemma beamed. David stayed quiet. I scraped the remains into carrier bags, handed them over. One thought echoed in my head: Never again.
After they left, James sighed. “She’s probably just used to it. Three kids, little time.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t care what she’s used to. I won’t be getting used to guests like that.”
From that night on, my door stays shut to those who arrive empty-handed but expect the world—especially those who mistake my kitchen for a free takeaway.
