Well, what do you make of this? My mother-in-law, Margaret Wilkins, had her relatives turn up two weeks before Easter, and by the looks of it, they’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon.
I, Emily, am at the point where I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These “guests” are quite the surprise package, and they’ve apparently decided our house is their personal bed and breakfast. And Margaret, instead of reining them in, just nods along and keeps plying them with scones. Don’t even get me started on my husband, Philip, who’s perfected the art of pretending this isn’t his problem at all. So I thought I’d share this little saga, because honestly, I’m curious whose patience will snap first—mine or theirs.
It all began when I woke up one morning to a racket in the kitchen. For a second, I thought maybe Philip had taken it upon himself to make breakfast. Ha, as if! I walked in to find a full delegation: Auntie Valerie, her husband Brian, and their daughter Poppy, all from some sleepy village where, judging by their stories, life is duller than a dishwasher manual. They’d come “for Easter,” but clearly decided the festivities start a fortnight early. Margaret, glowing like a freshly decorated egg, was already bustling about, whipping up a full English. “Emily, they’re family!” she chirped. “We must welcome them properly!” Meanwhile, I eyed the suitcases clogging the hallway and thought, *Oh, this is going to be a long haul.*
Auntie Valerie has a voice like a foghorn. The moment she arrived, she launched into a monologue about how everything in their town costs a fortune, while we’re living it up in “London luxury.” Then she commenced a full inspection of our home. “Oh, Emily, love, why are your curtains so dusty? And what’s this stain on the rug?” she asked, while rummaging through the linen cupboard like she was auditing my folding skills. I gritted my teeth and said nothing, but inside, I was simmering. Brian, her husband, turned out to be the polar opposite—silent as a wardrobe. He just sits in the lounge all day, glued to the telly, occasionally muttering, “Put the fishing channel on, eh?” And Poppy, their twenty-year-old daughter, lives on her phone while somehow consuming half our groceries. Once, I caught her finishing off my favourite yoghurt. “Oh, I thought it was for everyone!” she said. *For everyone, yes—just not you, Poppy!*
Instead of gently hinting that their welcome might be wearing thin, Margaret keeps pouring fuel on the fire. She cooks like it’s Christmas dinner every night: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, shepherd’s pie, you name it. The relatives, naturally, are in heaven. “Marge, you’re a marvel!” coos Auntie Valerie, helping herself to thirds. I tried nudging Margaret: “Maybe don’t spoil them rotten?” But she just gasped. “Emily, how can you say that? They only visit once in a blue moon!” Right. And now they’re apparently making up for lost time.
Philip, my darling husband, has mastered the art of Swiss-level neutrality. I said, “Phil, could you have a word with your mum? Maybe suggest they start thinking about trains home?” He just shrugged. “Em, be patient—they’re guests.” *Guests?!* This isn’t a visit; it’s a hostile takeover. I’ve started scheduling bathroom breaks because Poppy camps out in there for hour-long selfie sessions. And yesterday, Auntie Valerie “helped” with the cleaning and scoured my favourite frying pan into uselessness. “Thought it could use a scrub!” she beamed. *Yes, straight into the bin.*
The hilarious bit? They’ve started making long-term plans. Auntie Valerie announced she’d stay through May “to see how you lot do your bank holiday barbecues.” Brian’s dreaming of a fishing trip with Philip, and Poppy’s begging for a shopping spree because “our high street’s got nothing decent.” Meanwhile, I’m sat here wondering: *When will they leave?* More importantly, how do I survive till then without a nervous breakdown?
I’ve started plotting escape strategies. Maybe I could claim we’ve got builders coming? Or that we’re off on holiday? But Margaret seems to be thriving under the invasion. Yesterday, she proposed a massive Easter lunch and insisted we invite the neighbours. “Let them see what a close family we are!” Close? I’m starting to feel like a stranger in my own home.
The only thing keeping me sane is humour. At night, once everyone’s asleep, I pour myself a cuppa and imagine writing a book: *How to Survive a Relative Invasion.* Chapters would include “Hiding Snacks 101,” “Smiling When You Want to Scream,” and “Not Strangling Your Mother-in-Law for Her Hospitality.” Jokes aside, I know this is temporary. They’ll leave eventually, and the house will be ours again. But for now, I’m counting down to Easter and praying Auntie Valerie doesn’t decide to stay till summer.
Tell me, does anyone else have relatives like this? And how on earth do you handle them? Because I’m hanging by a thread here, but surrender isn’t an option. Maybe by Easter, I’ll achieve zen mastery. Or at least learn to hide yoghurts where Poppy can’t find them.
