“I’ve had enough of you!” I wanted to scream at my husband’s sister. But I bit my tongue. And there she was again, suitcase in hand, ready to spend another weekend under our roof.
My name is Emma, and I’m thirty-nine. I’ve been married to Oliver for twelve years. We have a decent, stable family—a growing son, a comfortable home. On paper, everything’s fine. But there’s one thing poisoning my life, and it’s been festering for years: his sister, Victoria.
Victoria is eight years older than Oliver. Never married, no children. Lives alone in the house across the street… and practically lives with us too. I’m not exaggerating. She slips into our home like a shadow—quiet, persistent, unshakable. Sometimes I swear she’s got a spare key hidden somewhere in her handbag, appearing whenever she pleases.
At first, I tried to be polite, even friendly. After all, she’s family—what harm could it do? I thought she’d pop in for tea, make small talk, then leave. But she came every evening. Every weekend. Every holiday. Even when we had guests. Even when I was ill.
Victoria has no boundaries. She comments on everything—how I cook, how I raise our son, how I dress. I’m either too quiet or laughing too loud; my cake is dry, the house is “untidy.” And worst of all, she doesn’t ask—she demands. And I swallow it all. Because I hate arguments. Because Oliver says, “Emma, just bear with it—she’s got no one else.”
So I did. But patience has its limits.
Victoria works as an accountant at a private firm. She finishes work before me and—without fail—heads straight to our house. I come home to find her already sprawled on the sofa, the TV blaring, our cat hiding under the bed. Our son glued to his phone. And there she sits—like she owns the place. Dinner’s waiting. Or, more often, I’m the one waiting for her to finish hogging the bathroom. She eats with us, then drones on for hours about her dull “adventures” at the tax office—stories no one listens to. Then, finally, she leaves. Unless she stays the night, claiming the boiler’s acting up or she’s afraid of thunderstorms.
When we planned trips, Victoria came along. Never mind that I longed for a weekend alone with my husband. Never mind that he’d promised me a seaside escape for my birthday. She was there. In our hotel room. Sleeping in the next bed. And Oliver paid for every penny of it—while she hoarded her own wages, saving for a “rainy day.” I suppose she thinks that rainy day is me.
Oliver’s mother insists I’m ungrateful. “She’s family,” she says. “Just lonely, just needs us.” And I get it—Victoria has no husband, no children. But why must I be the one sacrificing my peace?
Once, I finally snapped at Oliver:
“I can’t take it anymore. She invades everything. She’s everywhere. It’s suffocating!”
He just shrugged.
“What do you want me to do? She’s my sister…”
The breaking point came last week. We’d managed a rare night out—just us. I’d begged for it, arranged for our friend to watch our son. We’d barely taken our seats at the theatre when the phone rang. Victoria.
“Where are you? Why wasn’t I invited? Are you cutting me out now?” Her voice cut through the receiver like glass.
Two days later, she turned up again. Overnight bag in hand, flannel pyjamas peeking out, some dreadful soap opera tucked under her arm. “My weekend’s free,” she announced. “Thought I’d spend it here.”
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the countertop so hard my knuckles turned white. I nearly screamed. But I stayed silent. And something inside me shattered.
I don’t know how to tell Oliver I can’t live like this anymore. That I need a home without a third adult, without endless critiques, without arguments. Without Victoria.
And I’m terrified that if nothing changes, one day, I’ll have to walk away. Just to breathe again. Because even love can’t survive when there’s another life wedged between you and your husband—too loud, too intrusive, too much.
