**Diary Entry – 12th October, 2023**
Sometimes, I ache to slam the door right in my in-laws’ faces—their sheer nerve is tearing my life apart.
In a quiet market town just outside Gloucester, where weathered garden fences hide decades of neighbours’ gossip, my life at 33 has become an endless performance for my husband’s parents. My name’s Emmeline, married to Oliver, whose mum and dad—Margaret and Harold Wilson—have turned my home into their personal dining room. Their weekly visits, their entitlement and utter disregard, leave me gasping. I don’t know how to stop it without wrecking my marriage.
### The Family I Tried to Please
When I married Oliver, I dreamed of cosy Sunday roasts, children’s laughter, a warm house full of love. Oliver’s kind, hardworking—I adored him. His parents seemed harmless enough: salt-of-the-earth folk with booming laughs and a habit of saying exactly what they thought. I believed we’d rub along fine. But after the wedding, their “honesty” turned to rudeness, and their drop-ins became trials.
We live in a modest semi-detached, mortgaged to the hilt. Our three-year-old son, Alfie, is our world. I’m an office manager at a local firm; Oliver’s a mechanic. Money’s tight, but we manage. Yet every Sunday, like clockwork, the Wilsons barge in unannounced, and my home becomes theirs. No call, no warning—just an invasion, while I scramble like a skivvy to feed them.
### Audacity Without Limits
They arrive empty-handed but leave stuffed to the gills. Margaret plonks herself at the table and barks, “Emmeline, dish up that roast—and don’t skimp on the gravy!” Harold demands beef and a pint, and I’m left darting about like a pub waitress. Afterward, the kitchen’s a bombsite: crumbs trodden into the floor, towers of dirty plates, the fridge stripped bare. Last time, they polished off half a joint of beef, a dozen eggs, and a jug of homemade lemonade—not so much as a “ta” for it.
Worse is their contempt. Margaret nitpicks everything: my cooking, how I raise Alfie, even the way I hoover. “This Yorkshire pudding’s soggy,” she’ll say, shovelling it down. “And that boy’s too pale—you’re not feeding him proper.” Harold grunts in agreement, while Oliver stays mute, as if this is normal. I’ve tried hinting it’s too much, but Margaret just flaps a hand: “You’re young—stop moaning and cope.” Their arrogance is poison, dripping into my days.
### My Husband’s Silence
I’ve begged Oliver to step in. After one visit, elbows-deep in suds at midnight, I said, “They treat us like a free café. I can’t keep doing this.” He just shrugged. “Mum’s set in her ways. Don’t make a fuss.” Like a knife to the ribs. Doesn’t he see I’m breaking? I love him, but his silence cages me. I’m fighting his parents *and* him.
Alfie’s starting to notice. “Mummy, why’s your face cross?” he’ll ask. I force a smile, but inside, I’m screaming. I want him raised in a house brimming with love, not simmering resentment. Every in-law visit leaves me frayed, and though I dream of slamming that door, I falter—what would Oliver say? The neighbours? The guilt would gnaw at me.
### The Final Straw
Yesterday, they descended again. Three hours I spent cooking: roast beef, crispy potatoes, apple crumble. They devoured it, made smacking noises of approval, yet no thanks. When I asked Margaret to help clear, she scoffed, “I’m not your maid. This is *your* job.” Oliver stayed quiet. Something in me snapped.
I won’t be their cook, their cleaner, their doormat anymore. This is *my* home, not their blasted gastro-pub.
### My Stand
I’ve decided: Oliver gets an ultimatum. Either he reins them in, or I stop hosting. They can bring a dish, lend a hand—or stay away. It’ll blow up, no doubt. Margaret will call me ungrateful; Harold will grumble into his ale. Oliver might sulk for weeks. But I refuse to live like this any longer.
### A Cry for Freedom
This isn’t just about Sunday dinners—it’s about reclaiming my life. Maybe the Wilsons don’t see how their greed crushes me. Maybe Oliver loves me but lets his loyalty to them smother us. I want Alfie to know a happy home. I want to breathe. At 33, I deserve respect—even if it means bolting the door.
I don’t know how Oliver will take it, but I won’t back down. Let it be a battle; I’m ready. My family is Oliver, Alfie, and me. No one gets to treat my home like their personal trough. Their empty hands can stay empty. My dignity’s coming back.
**Lesson learned:** A house isn’t a home until you stop letting others treat it like their own.
