Is it worth sacrificing yourself for someone else’s holiday? How I refused to host my in-laws for free in my seaside home—and became an outcast
I’ve long grown used to the fact that my life isn’t easy. Worries, responsibilities, endless work—it’s all become routine, and in that grind, I’ve lost myself. Now they call me greedy, heartless, a gold-digger, when all I did was refuse to be everyone’s doormat. I want to share my story—not for judgment, but so you understand: behind every “refusal” isn’t greed, but exhaustion no one bothers to see.
Our cottage by the sea looks like paradise to most. Spacious, tidy, with a garden and a cosy gazebo. But few know the backbreaking labour it took to get here. My parents left us a crumbling old shed on a plot in Whitby. My husband and I spent over a decade rebuilding it—brick by brick, room by room, all by hand, with no help. We added an extension, laid plumbing and gas, set up a garden, even built guest lodges.
Yes, it’s a small business now. In summer, when tourists swarm, we rent out everything—even our own bedroom. We sleep in a shed on camp beds. Guests pay not just for lodging but for home-cooked meals. I’m up at dawn, cooking, scrubbing, changing sheets, cleaning, welcoming and farewelling. By July, I can’t remember the last time I ate or slept properly.
And still, I don’t complain. Because those summer months feed us the rest of the year. We give almost everything to our daughter and son-in-law—they’re paying a mortgage, and we’re glad to help. We’re not young anymore, our health is shaky, but we push on.
Now, to the point.
Recently, our daughter announced they’re off to Majorca. Joy? Sure. Then she added, casually: “Oh, and the in-laws are coming to stay with you this summer. They’ve never had a proper holiday. Mum, make it nice for them, won’t you? And don’t charge them—they’re pensioners.” I was stunned.
The in-laws? The ones who didn’t even call when my husband and I were bedridden with COVID and the building work stalled? The ones who barely stayed an hour at our daughter’s wedding? The ones who forgot we existed for eight years—until a free seaside trip came up?
I checked the bookings log—every day was packed. Tourists reserved slots back in January, even our bedroom was taken by young parents with a poorly child. My husband and I were set to sleep in a tent—literally. In that chaos, between guests, the shed, the tent, and chronic exhaustion—where was I meant to put two elderly people who’d expect comfort, quiet, and attention?
I’m not against family. But this isn’t a holiday home—it’s our lifeline. We have no other income. After the pandemic, tourism only just picked up. We’re barely scraping by, and now this.
I told my daughter I couldn’t do it. That it wouldn’t work. That I was stretched too thin. The backlash was instant. My husband sulked: “But they’re family.” My son-in-law snapped: “You’re embarrassing us.” Neighbours muttered: “Too posh to help now.” And my daughter… she went silent. And I realised—to everyone, I’m no longer the woman who held things together, but a tight-fisted old hag draped in cheap gold chains bought with summer pennies.
That night, I sat on the porch, listening to the sea, and cried. I’m tired of being kind. Tired of giving everything and getting demands in return. No one asked how I was. No one offered help. No one considered that I might just—break.
Now I wonder: stand my ground and be hated, or cave and wear myself down to nothing again, just to keep the peace.
Tell me, what would you choose?
