**A Diary Entry: How I Finally Stopped My Relatives from Inviting Themselves Over**
Sometimes, people assume family is always a joy. That if someone turns up with cake, kids, and smiles, you must drop everything, lay out a feast, and play the gracious hostess. Refuse, and you’re labelled ungrateful, rude, or incapable of keeping relationships intact. But no one considers the audacity, the sheer entitlement, hidden beneath that performative familial warmth.
This is my story. My name is Eleanor, and it happened shortly after my husband, James, and I moved to Manchester to start afresh.
We’d rented a cosy two-bed in the suburbs, busy with work and settling in. I preferred quiet evenings—no rowdy gatherings, and certainly no chaotic family meals with endless chatter and sticky-fingered children. Yet, some people treat your home like their personal holiday cottage, and you, like unpaid staff.
Enter Lucy—James’s sister. At first, it was harmless: she’d pop by with her husband and kids for tea, bringing shop-bought biscuits, perfectly polite. But soon, it changed. Lucy began turning up uninvited, more and more often.
*”Hey, love! Mind if we swing by tonight? Set the table—we’ll be there in an hour!”* became routine. She’d phrase it as a question but never waited for an answer. Refusals weren’t an option. Even if I said I was ill, swamped, or just needed rest—she’d barrel right over.
And never alone. Her husband, their three boisterous kids, sometimes even their bulldog, Brutus. Not a single packet of crisps or bottle of juice brought along. They’d stay till midnight, eat us out of house and home, then vanish, leaving a mountain of dishes and my sanity in tatters.
I grew to dread holidays. Birthdays, Christmas, bank holiday weekends—all became torture. Cooking, smiling, tidying until 2 a.m., only to drag myself to work the next morning. James stayed silent, loathing confrontation. *”She’s family,”* he’d murmur. *”Just humour her.”*
Then, one day, I snapped. If I didn’t stop this now, it’d never end. I called Lucy.
*”Lucy, James and I are coming over tonight. Lay out a spread—oh, and pack us some leftovers. Oh, and make sure there’s pudding—we’ve got my friend’s kids with us.”*
*”Er… maybe another time?”* she faltered.
*”We’re leaving now,”* I said coolly and hung up.
James threw a fit, calling it a *”stunt”* and refusing to join. Fine. I roped in my mate Lizzie—always up for mischief—and her two little terrors. We marched to Lucy’s.
I saw the curtain twitch. She was there, watching. But the door stayed shut. No answer to knocks or the bell. The lace trembled, then stilled. I grinned.
Lizzie and I took the kids to a café instead. Pasta, cake, a glass of wine. We laughed. The children were loud, but for once, I felt peace. Finally, my home—my boundaries—were mine again.
Lucy never called after that. Never dropped by unannounced. James sulked briefly but got over it. And me? I breathed.
Kindness isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, you must draw the line. Or at least learn to shut the door on those who don’t knock—they just kick it down.
I’ve no regrets. Would you?
