Thursday, 15th June – A Lesson in Boundaries
I’ve long accepted that my life isn’t what you’d call easy. Responsibilities, chores, unending toil—it’s all become second nature, and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of myself. Now they call me stingy, cold-hearted, a money-grubber—all because I once refused to make myself convenient for everyone else. I share this not for sympathy, but so you understand: behind every “no” isn’t greed, but exhaustion no one bothers to see.
Our seaside cottage in Cornwall is what most would call idyllic. Spacious, tidy, with a proper garden and a cosy gazebo. But few know the blood and sweat it took to get here. My husband and I inherited a crumbling shed on the plot from my parents. Over a decade, we rebuilt it—brick by brick, room by room, all by our own hands, without a soul to help. We added an extension, laid plumbing, installed gas, dug a proper septic system, even built guest lodges in the yard.
Now it’s our livelihood. In summer, when tourists flood in, we rent out every inch—even our own bedroom. We sleep in the tool shed on camp beds. Guests pay not just for lodging, but for home-cooked meals. I’m at the stove from dawn till dusk, washing linens, changing sheets, scrubbing floors, checking folks in and out. By July, I barely remember the last proper meal or full night’s sleep.
And still, I don’t complain. Because those summer months keep us afloat the rest of the year. Nearly every penny goes to our daughter and son-in-law—they’re saddled with a mortgage, and we’re glad to help. We’re not young anymore; our health wavers, but we carry on.
Now—to the heart of it.
Last week, our daughter announced they’re off to Spain. Lovely. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Oh, and the in-laws will stay with you in August. They’ve never had a proper holiday. Mum, do make it special for them—and don’t charge them, yeah? They’re pensioners.” I went numb.
*The in-laws?* The ones who couldn’t be bothered to ring when my husband and I were laid up with COVID, the building work frozen? The ones who breezed into their wedding for an hour and left? The ones who forgot we existed for eight years—until “free seaside lodgings” came up?
I checked the bookings ledger—every day’s booked solid since January. Even our room’s taken by a young couple with a poorly toddler. We’d have to sleep in a tent. Literally. And in that chaos—guests, the shed, the tent, the exhaustion—where exactly was I meant to house two elderly folks expecting comfort, quiet, and attention?
It’s not that I begrudge family. But this isn’t a holiday let—it’s how we survive. We’ve no other income. Tourism’s only just recovering after the pandemic. And now this.
I told our daughter no. That it wouldn’t work. That I couldn’t manage it, not physically or mentally. The backlash was instant. My husband scowled: “They’re *family*.” The son-in-law muttered about embarrassment. The village gossips clucked: “Too proud to share now.” And our daughter? She just went quiet. And I realised—to them, I’m no longer the woman who’s carried them all, but a miserly old hag, weighed down by the “fortune” we scrape together each summer.
Last night, I sat on the porch, listening to the waves, and cried. I’m tired of being kind. Tired of giving everything and getting demands in return. Not one of them asked how I was. Not one offered to help. It never crossed their minds I might simply be *done*.
So here’s the choice: stand my ground and be hated, or fold—and wear myself to nothing again for their comfort.
Tell me—what would you do?
*A man learns too late that generosity, unguarded, becomes an entitlement.*
