I took my old mate Emily in after her divorce, and before I knew it I was ending up more like a servant in my own flat.
There are friendships that survive everything weddings, splits, kids, funerals. Emily and I have known each other for over thirty years. We sat our Alevels together, shared our first heartbreaks, and even when she moved up to Manchester she always popped back to London and with her I could just be me.
So one night she rang, completely shattered, and simply said, Ive got nowhere to go I didnt think twice. Come over. You always have a place here, I told her.
The first few days felt like we were back in our teens endless chats, giggles, memories. After my husband passed, the house was dead quiet, and having her around actually lifted my spirits. I tried to look after her: I cooked, gave her my best bed, bought fresh towels so shed feel at home. She promised shed stay a couple of weeks while she got back on her feet.
But a month went by then another. She wasnt looking for a flat, wasnt sending out CVs, wasnt getting up in the mornings she kept saying, Im catching up on the sleep I missed all those years. Shed wander the flat in a bathrobe, claim the sofa as her throne and ask, Did you grab my fruit yoghurt? I love the strawberry one, as if it were the most natural thing.
Gradually I felt myself fading. Id get home from work and shed be there, tea in hand, leafing through my newspaper. When I asked her to at least make a soup, she just laughed, Youre better at that, Im hopeless.
It was always me doing the dishes, doing the shopping. The fridge filled with everything she liked. The bathroom became a shrine to her cosmetics. The TV was constantly playing her favourite series.
One afternoon I invited another friend over for a coffee, and Emily made a scene, saying she wasnt comfortable with strangers in the house. She even shooed my cat away, He gives me allergies.
For ages I brushed it off, telling myself she was still raw from the divorce, hurt and disoriented, that I just had to bear it. Then one day she started rearranging the furniture, insisting, This works better now. Thats when I realised shed crossed a line.
The hardest moment came when she asked me, after work, to pick up her laundry from the cleaners and grab some groceries I dont have the energy to go out. I trudged home with the bags, barely managing, and she asked, Did you get the right detergent? Dont mix them up. Something inside me snapped.
For the first time in ages I spoke up firmly:
We need to talk. This cant keep going. This is my home, and youve got to start thinking about where youre going to live.
At first she looked shocked, then angry, accusing me of not understanding her and only caring about myself. It was tough, but I knew if I didnt set boundaries now Id lose who I was.
She packed a few days later, slamming the door behind her. I felt guilty, as if Id betrayed someone whod become family. But slowly the flat began to breathe again. I started feeling like the space was truly mine again my life, my rules.
A few months later a short text popped up:
Sorry. I think I was completely lost then. Thanks for helping me, even if I didnt appreciate it.
I replied wishing her all the best and thought, sometimes the hardest thing is saying no to someone you care about. If you dont, you risk losing something far more precious yourself.
