Relatives Visiting: How My Politeness Led to a Scandal
Sometimes a kind heart isn’t a blessing—it’s a trap. Especially when “family” treats your conscience like an open invitation.
I’ve always been a peacekeeper. I avoid arguments, struggle to say no, and try to keep everyone happy—especially relatives. Most of mine aren’t particularly close, but as they say, “blood’s thicker than water.”
They live in a village outside Birmingham. Once the garden chores wrap up, the whole lot descends on the city. And, as if by some unspoken rule, my flat becomes their annual “destination.” They’ll pop by others for tea, but they always stay with me. Every time.
I put up with it. Stayed quiet. Told myself—it’s just a few days. Then back to work, peace, my own routine.
But this year, they blindsided me.
One fine June afternoon, they announced they were moving in for three months.
“We’re not in your way, are we?” my uncle chuckled, hauling two stuffed duffels and a mattress into the hall.
“What about the cottage?” I ventured carefully.
“Could do with a break from it. Fancy some city air for a change. Good for your kids to play with ours too,” my aunt chirped, not even bothering to take off her shoes.
As if I were some weekend retreat—free of charge, with complimentary meals and a warm welcome.
A week would’ve been one thing. But three months?
And my husband and I had a holiday planned. The seaside, quiet, sunshine. Everything was booked. Even the suitcases were packed.
When I gently hinted we were leaving soon and maybe they should think about heading home, all hell broke loose.
“Selfish, Annie!” my uncle bellowed. “Always thinking of yourself. We haven’t even been to the park yet, haven’t done half the things we planned, and you’re kicking us out! You could’ve rescheduled your holiday—autumn, even!”
My aunt scoffed and stormed into the kitchen, slamming cupboards. The kids whined. The air turned thick, like before a thunderstorm. But I knew—if I backed down now, they’d be celebrating Christmas here too.
“Sorry, but we’re still going,” I said firmly. “You’re adults. You’ll manage.”
First, silence. Then came the huffy bustle—packing bags, washing dishes with exaggerated anger, muttering loudly. On their way out, they raided half the fridge.
“Some hospitality,” my aunt snapped without looking back.
The door slammed shut. And then… quiet. So rare, so sweet. I sank onto the sofa, hugged a cushion, and breathed freely for the first time in weeks.
Yes, I feel guilty. I never wanted a fight. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. But where was the line? When did my politeness stop being kindness and start being a burden?
Now I know for sure: helping—fine. Hosting—sure. But letting them walk all over me? Never.
