Well, what do you make of this? My mother-in-law, Margaret Thompson, had her relatives turn up two weeks before Easter, and by the looks of it, they’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon.
I’m Sophie, and at this point, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These guests are a right handful, and they seem to think our home is now their personal hotel. And Margaret, instead of reining them in, just nods along and keeps feeding them homemade pies. Don’t even get me started on my husband, James, who acts like it’s got nothing to do with him. So I thought I’d tell you lot, because honestly, I’m curious whose patience will snap first—mine or theirs.
It all started one morning when I woke up to a racket in the kitchen. Thought maybe James was surprising me with breakfast. Yeah, right. Walked in to find a whole delegation: Auntie Margaret (yes, another one), her husband Frank, and their daughter Gemma, all the way from some dreary little town where, judging by their stories, life is duller than an empty fridge. They’d come “for Easter,” but seems they decided the holiday starts a fortnight early. Margaret (my mother-in-law), glowing like a Christmas bauble, was already at the stove whipping up a roast dinner. “Sophie, love, it’s family!” she says. “We’ve got to give them a proper welcome!” Meanwhile, I’m staring at the suitcases piled in the hall, knowing full well this is going to be a long haul.
Auntie Margaret has a voice that could shatter glass. From the moment she arrived, she’s been going on about how everything’s expensive where they’re from, while here it’s “posh London living.” And wouldn’t you know it, she’s already started inspecting our house like she’s on an estate tour. “Oh, Sophie, why’re your curtains so dusty? What’s this stain on the rug?” she asks, all while rifling through the linen cupboard like she’s grading my folding skills. I gritted my teeth and said nothing, but inside, I was boiling. Frank, her husband, is the complete opposite—silent as a brick. He just sits in the lounge all day, glued to the telly, occasionally grunting, “Put the fishing channel on.” And Gemma, their twenty-year-old, lives on her phone but somehow manages to polish off half our groceries. Caught her finishing my favourite yoghurt the other day. “Oh, I thought it was for everyone!” she says. Right. Everyone except you, Gem.
Instead of gently suggesting they might overstay their welcome, Margaret’s pouring petrol on the fire. She cooks like it’s a royal banquet every day: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, shepherd’s pie, Victoria sponge. And the relatives, naturally, are loving it. “Mags, you’re a saint!” Auntie Margaret coos, while shovelling down seconds. I tried hinting to my mother-in-law that maybe she ought to ease up, but she just gasped, “Sophie, how could you? It’s family! They hardly ever visit!” Yeah, and by the looks of it, they’re settling in for the next decade.
James, my husband, is the king of staying out of it. I tell him, “James, talk to your mum—get her to nudge them toward the door.” He just goes, “Soph, be patient, they’re guests.” Guests? This isn’t a guest visit; it’s a hostile takeover. I’ve even got to schedule my showers now because Gemma hogs the bathroom for selfies. And yesterday, Auntie Margaret “helped” with the cleaning and scrubbed my best frying pan so hard it’s ruined. “Thought I was doing you a favour!” she says. A favour for the bin, more like.
The best part? They’re making plans. Auntie Margaret’s already announced she wants to stay till May Day to “see how you lot do barbecues.” Frank’s dreaming of a fishing trip with James, and Gemma’s begging for a trip to the West End because, apparently, their high street’s “got nothing decent.” Meanwhile, I’m sat here wondering: when are they leaving? More importantly, how do I last that long without losing my mind?
I’ve started brainstorming ways to speed up their exit. Maybe say we’ve got builders coming? Or pretend we’re off on holiday? But Margaret’s loving every minute of it. Yesterday, she suggested throwing a big Easter lunch and inviting the neighbours. “Let everyone see what a close family we are!” she says. Close, sure—just feels like I’m the outsider in my own home.
The only thing keeping me sane is my sense of humour. At night, once everyone’s asleep, I pour myself a cuppa and imagine writing a book: *How to Survive a Relative Invasion*. Chapters include “Hiding Food 101,” “Smiling While Screaming Inside,” and “Not Strangling Your Mother-in-law for Being Too Nice.” All jokes aside, I know this won’t last forever. They’ll leave, and the house will be ours again. But for now, I’m counting down to Easter and praying Auntie Margaret doesn’t decide to stick around till summer.
Anyone else got relatives like this? And how do you cope? Because I’m on the verge, but I won’t back down. Maybe by Easter, I’ll have mastered zen. Or at least learned to hide yoghurts where Gemma can’t find them.
