“You’re driving me mad!” I wanted to scream at my husband’s sister. But I bit my tongue. And there she was—again—dragging her suitcase in for the weekend…
I’m Emily, thirty-nine years old. I’ve been married to James for twelve years. We’ve got a decent, solid little family—our son’s growing up, everything’s fine on paper. But there’s one thing that’s been poisoning my life for years: his sister, Margaret.
Margaret’s eight years older than James. Never married, no kids. Lives alone in the house across the street and… practically lives with us too. I’m not exaggerating. She shows up at our flat like a shadow—quiet, relentless, every single day. Sometimes I swear she’s got spare keys to our building growing right out of her handbag.
At first, I tried to be polite, even sweet. Well, she’s family, right? I figured she’d pop round, have a cuppa, chat a bit, then leave. But no—she came every evening. And on weekends. And during holidays. Even when we had other guests over. Even when I was ill—she’d still turn up.
Margaret has no filter. She’s always got an opinion—how I cook, how I raise our son, how I dress. I’m either too quiet or laugh too loud, my cakes are too dry, or the flat’s “not tidy enough.” And the worst part? She doesn’t ask—she demands. And I just swallow it. Because I hate drama. Because James says, “Em, just put up with it—she’s got no one else but us.”
So I put up with it. But patience isn’t endless.
Margaret works as an accountant at a firm downtown. She gets off work before me and… heads straight to ours. I come home—she’s already on the sofa, telly blaring, the cat hiding under the bed. Our son’s glued to his phone. And she’s acting like she owns the place. Dinner’s waiting. Or worse—I’m waiting for her to finish in the bathroom. She eats with us, then drones on for hours about her “adventures” at work, which no one listens to. Then she leaves. Sometimes, she stays over because she’s “scared of storms” or “the heating’s dodgy at hers.”
When we planned a trip—Margaret came along. Didn’t matter that I dreamed of a weekend just me and James. Didn’t matter he’d promised me a seaside getaway for my birthday. Margaret was there. In our hotel room. Snoring in the next bed. And James footed the bill. Meanwhile, she earns decent money, “saving for a rainy day,” as she puts it. Guess she thinks that rainy day is me.
And James’s mum? She reckons I’m ungrateful. “Margaret’s not a stranger, she’s just lonely and needs us,” she says. I get it—Margaret’s got no family, no kids. But why should my comfort pay the price?
Once, I finally snapped at James:
“I’ve had enough. She crosses every line. She’s everywhere. It’s unbearable!”
He just shrugged.
“What d’you want me to do? She’s my sister…”
Then came the breaking point. We finally went to the theatre—just us. I’d begged for that night. Got a mate to babysit. Then, as we sat down—ring, ring. Margaret.
“Where are you? Why wasn’t I invited? Trying to cut me out now?” she shrieked down the phone.
Two days later? She was back. With her overnight bag. Pyjamas. Her favourite telly show. “Got the weekend free—thought I’d spend it with you,” she said.
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter. Nearly screamed. But I stayed silent. And something inside me just… snapped.
I don’t know how to tell James I can’t do this anymore. That I need a home without a third adult. Without endless advice. Without the drama. Without Margaret.
And I’m scared—if nothing changes, one day, I’ll have to walk away. Just to breathe properly again. Because even love can’t survive when there’s another life wedged between you and your husband. Too loud. Too clingy. Too… not ours.
