**Diary Entry**
*”I could have screamed at her—my husband’s sister. But I bit my tongue. And yet, here she was again, suitcase in hand, ready to invade another weekend…”*
My name is Olivia. I’m thirty-nine, and I’ve been married to James for twelve years now. We’ve got a decent life—stable, with a son growing up—everything *should* be fine. But there’s one thing that’s been poisoning my peace for years: his sister, Margaret.
Margaret is eight years older than James. Never married, no children. Lives alone in the house across the street and yet… she might as well live with us. I’m not exaggerating. She slips into our flat like a shadow—unseen at first, then impossible to ignore. Some days, I swear her keys to our building grow straight out of her handbag.
At first, I tried being polite, even warm. Well, family is family, after all—she’s his sister. I assumed she’d pop in for tea, a chat, then leave. But no. She came every evening. Weekends. Holidays. Even when we had other guests over. When I was ill—she still came.
Margaret has no filter. She comments on everything: how I cook, how I raise my son, how I dress. Too quiet, too loud, the roast’s dry, the sofa needs vacuuming—nothing escapes her. Worst of all? She doesn’t ask. She *demands*. And I swallow it all—because I hate scenes. Because James just says, *”Liv, bear with her. She’s got no one else but us.”*
I’ve borne it. But patience isn’t infinite.
Margaret works as an accountant at a private firm. She finishes work before me and heads straight to ours. I walk in—she’s already sprawled on the sofa, the telly blaring, the cat hiding under the bed. My son buried in his phone. And there she sits—like she owns the place. *”Dinner’s ready.”* Or worse, *I* have to wait while she hogs the shower. She eats with us, then drones on for hours about her *”dramas”* at the tax office—stories no one listens to. Then she leaves. Sometimes, she stays over—because *”the storm frightens her”* or *”her heating’s dodgy.”*
When we planned trips—Margaret came too. Didn’t matter if I dreamed of a weekend alone with James. Didn’t matter that he once promised me a birthday trip to Brighton. She was there. In our hotel room. On the next bed. All paid for by James. And the worst part? She earns just fine, always bragging about *”saving for a rainy day.”* I suppose she thinks *I’m* the rain.
James’s mum thinks I’m ungrateful. *”Margaret’s family,”* she says. *”She’s just lonely—needs us.”* I get it. She’s got no husband, no kids. But why must *my* comfort pay the price?
Once, I snapped at James:
*”I’ve had enough. She bulldozes every boundary. She’s everywhere—it’s suffocating!”*
He just shrugged.
*”What d’you want me to do? She’s my sister…”*
The final straw? Last week. James and I finally went to the theatre—just us. I’d *begged* for it, arranged for a friend to watch our son. We’d just settled into our seats when my phone rang. Margaret.
*”Where are you? Why wasn’t I invited? Are you cutting me out?”* she shrieked.
Two days later, she was back. Overnight bag. Pyjamas. Her dreadful soaps. *”My weekend’s free—thought I’d spend it with you.”*
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter. I nearly screamed. But I didn’t. Instead, something inside me *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 dramatics. Without Margaret.
And I’m terrified that if nothing changes—I’ll have to leave. Just to *breathe* again. Because even love buckles when there’s another *whole life* wedged between you and your husband. Too loud. Too clingy. Too… *not ours.*
