My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage for Christmas Break, but I Refused to Hand Over the Keys — “So, we had a little chat and decided there’s no sense letting your cottage sit empty! We’ll take the kids there for the Christmas holidays—fresh air, nice big hill, and we’ll even heat up the sauna. Len, you’re always working anyway, and Vitya needs a break, though he insists he’d rather catch up on sleep. So give us the keys, we’ll pop round first thing tomorrow.” Svetlana, my husband’s sister, was shrieking down the phone so forcefully I had to hold it away from my ear. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, drying a plate, trying to get my head around what I’d just heard. The brazenness of my husband’s family was already a running joke, but this was a new level. “Hold on, Svet,” I said slowly, doing my best to keep the irritation out of my voice. “How did you come to this decision, exactly? With whom? The cottage isn’t a public park or a holiday camp. It’s our home—mine and Vitya’s. And we were planning on spending the holidays there ourselves.” She scoffed. “Oh, get over yourself! You were planning, honestly! Vitya told Mum you’d be spending Christmas at home, watching telly. You’ve got loads of space—two floors! We won’t bother you if you do decide to turn up, but honestly, best not—our crowd gets noisy. Gena’s inviting mates, barbecue, music—know what I mean? You and your books would just get bored.” My cheeks burned. I instantly pictured Gena’s rowdy mates, his taste for loud music and cheap spirits; their two teenagers who treated “no” as a foreign language; and my poor cottage—my pride, my savings for five years—turned upside-down. “No, Svet,” I said firmly. “You’ll get no keys from me. The place isn’t ready for guests. The heating system’s complicated, the septic’s temperamental, and I’m not having a load of strangers trashing my sanctuary.” “We’re strangers now, are we?” she squealed, finally pausing her chewing. “Your husband’s actual sister! And your own nephews! You’ve turned into a right cold cow with all that accountancy. I’ll tell Mum how you treat family!” The line went dead. I set the phone down, my fingers trembling. I knew this wasn’t over—soon Nina Petrovna, my notorious mother-in-law, would arrive with an ultimatum. Viktor came in moments later, trying to wrap an arm round me. “Len, bit harsh, wasn’t it? Svet’s a pest, but family’s family. They’ll be hurt.” I shook off his arm. The exhaustion and resolve in my eyes stopped him short. “Vitya, remember last May?” He winced. “I suppose…” “Suppose?” I snapped. “They came for a weekend ‘barbecue.’ They snapped Dad’s old apple tree, burned a hole in the front-room carpet with a coal, left mountains of filthy dishes with congealed grease—Svet claimed her manicure was too precious, said ‘You’ve got a dishwasher’, then stuffed it with food-covered crockery and blocked the drain! Remember the smashed vase? The trampled peonies?” “They were… just kids. Playing,” Viktor mumbled, examining the lino. “Kids? Your nephew’s fifteen, Vitya, your niece is thirteen! They’re hardly toddlers. They turned the sauna into a bonfire and almost burned the place down! And you’d let them in alone? In winter?” “They promised they’d behave… Gena said he’d watch them.” “Gena will only watch the vodka bottle. No, Vitya. I won’t budge. That cottage is my home, legally and otherwise. I spent my inheritance to fix it up. I know every timber. I’m not letting it become a pigsty.” We spent an evening in stubborn silence. Viktor tried (and failed) to watch telly, then retreated to the bedroom. I nursed a lukewarm tea and remembered scraping paint off pine logs with my bare hands. That house was more than a cottage; it was a dream, my sanctuary. Viktor’s lot saw it as a ‘free resort.’ Next morning, the bell rang. Through the peephole, I saw Nina Petrovna in her best mink hat, lips scarlet, clutching a massive carrier bag with a slab of frozen salmon poking out. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she barked, ignoring basic greetings. She swept into the hallway like a ship in stormy waters. Viktor darted out but was met with a withering look: “Can’t a mother visit her son without an appointment? Put the kettle on. And fetch my valerian—I haven’t slept in two nights, thanks to you two.” At the table, she went straight for the jugular. “Now, what’s all this about? Why won’t you give Svetochka the keys? Genuine family—your husband’s sister—just asking to take the kids to the cottage for the holidays. There’s renovation dust everywhere in their flat. Your palace is sitting empty. Is it really so hard, Lena?” “Nina Petrovna,” I replied calmly, meeting her stare, “It’s not a palace—it’s a house that needs looking after. Svetlana’s ‘renovation’ has dragged on for five years. That’s no excuse to seize our property. And to be honest, I remember their last visit all too well. I still can’t get the smell of smoke out of the curtains, even though I asked them not to light up indoors.” “Oh, so they smoked, big deal!” she threw up her hands. “You care more about your things than about people. That’s materialism, Lena! We raised Vitya to be generous, not a skinflint. You can’t take the cottage to your grave, you know!” “Mum, Lena really poured her heart into that place…” said Viktor, in a rare show of courage. “Be quiet! Are you a man or a doormat? You let your wife run the show while your own sister and her kids freeze? Gena’s 45th is on the third—they’ve bought the steaks, invited half their mates. You’d have them humiliated in front of everyone?” “That’s not my problem,” I said coolly, “if they planned a party in someone else’s house without asking. That’s just rude, Nina Petrovna.” She paled with fury. Normally her sheer force flattened opposition—especially soft-touch Viktor. But I was no pushover. “Rude, is it? I took you in like a daughter, and you… Vitya, hear how she talks to me? If you don’t hand over the keys this instant, I swear I’ll curse that cottage. You’ll never see me there again!” “You don’t like the garden anyway,” I muttered. “You snake!” She shot to her feet, toppling her chair. “Vitya, give me the keys! I’ll pass them to Svet myself. Are you the man of this house, or what?” Viktor, torn in two, shrank under her glare. He remembered what it was like patching the porch after Gena’s last blunder with the barbecue… “Mum, Lena’s got the keys. We might go ourselves, anyway.” “Liar!” she snapped. “Fine—Svet will be here first thing. The keys had better be left out, along with instructions for the boiler, or you’re no son of mine. And you,” she jabbed at me, “will remember this day. The world goes round, Lena.” She stormed out. For a while, only the tick of the kitchen clock dared disturb the silence. “You’re not really giving them the keys, are you?” Viktor asked softly. “No. In fact, Vitya, tomorrow we head to the cottage ourselves. Early. The only way to keep them out is to actually be there. Your sister would climb in through the window if she decided she ‘needed’ to. This way, she’ll have to turn back.” “…This is war, Len.” “No. This is border control. Pack your things.” We left at dawn. London was magical in the frost, but we weren’t in festive spirits. Viktor fidgeted with his muted phone the whole way. When we got out, the cottage—pretty, warm, snow-topped—was a postcard. I breathed in relief. By noon, there were fairy lights, scent of pine, and mandarins in the air. Viktor, clearing the drive, found a rare contentment. I could see it. At three, trouble struck: cars sounding at the gate. Gena’s Jeep and another car, their whole lot spilling out: Svet, Gena, the teens, some random friends, and a huge Rottweiler without a muzzle. And of course, Nina Petrovna, looming like a general. Viktor hovered, shovel in hand; I pulled on my boots and went to the door. They yelled, rattled the latch, banged on the gate: “Let us in! Surprise! Might as well celebrate together since you’re here!” Hand on Viktor’s shoulder, I said, “We weren’t expecting guests—go celebrate elsewhere.” Svet scoffed and Gena waved a crate of vodka. “Come on, don’t be such a princess. We’ll be good…” “Keep your dog out of my garden!” I snapped as it lifted a leg on my topiary. “Oh, it’s only a tree!” Svet squealed. “Toilets are at the petrol station, five miles that way,” I said crisply. “This place is occupied. We’re here to relax. There’s no room for a party of ten plus a dog.” They stared, slow on the uptake—they’d expected their usual ambush tactic to work, especially with their matriarch in tow. “What, you’re keeping us out in the cold?” Nina Petrovna shrieked. “Vitya, say something!” Viktor, eyes pleading, looked at me. “If you open that gate,” I said levelly, “it’ll be an all-night booze-up. Dog will wreck the flowerbeds, kids will trash the upstairs, your sister will boss me around in my own kitchen, and Gena will chain-smoke all night. Our holiday—ruined. Is that what you want? Or do you want a peaceful Christmas with me? Your call, now.” Viktor turned to the mob at the gate—Gena kicking his tyres, Svet yelling, the kids pelting the house with snowballs, Nina Petrovna clutching her chest in operatic anguish. He straightened, walked to the gate and said—not loudly, but steady: “Mum, Svet. Lena’s right. We already said no keys. Turn around, please.” “What?!” they chorused. “You heard. This is my home too. I don’t want your circus here. Go.” Gena growled, trying to reach through the bars. “You… I’ll—” “Leave, Gena,” Viktor gripped the shovel. “Or I’ll call the police. This estate has private security.” “Strangers, are we now?!” Nina Petrovna gasped. “We’re off, then!” yelled Svet, yanking her family away. “You pair are mad! We’ll go to Tolyan’s place—proper people, even if it’s half-finished!” Engines revved. The motley crew trundled away, Svet flashing a rude sign. Silence returned, broken only by their dog’s signature ‘gift’ on my evergreen. Viktor sank onto the porch steps, head in hands. “God, the shame… my own mother…” I sat beside him. “It’s not shame, Vitya. It’s finally growing up. You stood up for us—our family, not theirs.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She will—as soon as she wants something. That’s how they are. But they’ll know the boundary now.” “You think so?” “I know so. If not, at least we’ll have peace. Let’s get inside—I’ll make some mulled wine.” Inside, I drew the curtains, shutting out the cold and the past. That night was quiet and warm—companionable, not bitter. Three days of bliss—walks, steak-for-two, sauna, books. The phones stayed silent in family boycott. On January third, as predicted, Svet sent Viktor a photo—not an apology but a boast: bleak shed, battered stove, vodka and rowdy faces. “We’re having a ball without you—jealous?” I glanced at swollen-faced Gena in the mess, then at my husband, serene and dozing by the fire. “Nothing to envy, Svet,” I whispered, deleting the message. A week later, Nina Petrovna called—icily polite, asking Viktor to run her to the GP and mentioning the cottage not at all. The boundary was set. There’d be skirmishes yet, but our little fortress stood. And I realised: sometimes you have to be “bad” for others to stay true to yourself and protect your own. The cottage keys now live safe and sound—tucked away in my safe, just in case.

So, listen to this. Youre not going to believe the audacity of Marks family. His sister, Claire, called me up out of the blue one evening and, I kid you not, announces, Right, weve had a chat, and thought, whats the point of your cottage just sitting empty? Well take the kids and go there for the Christmas hols. Bit of fresh air, sledge on the hill, get the log burner going. Youre always working, and Mark says he needs a bit of peace, doesnt want to come says he wants to catch up on sleep. So just hand over the keys, yeah? Well swing by tomorrow morning.

Honestly, Claire was so pushy and loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. I was in the kitchen, drying up with my tea towel, and couldnt quite process her nerve. I mean, Marks family are known for being a bit much, but this was another level.

I took a minute and then said: Hang on, Claire. Who exactly made that decision? The cottage isnt some public community centre its our home, and actually Mark and I were planning to spend time there ourselves.

Oh, dont be so fussy! she said, and I could practically hear her munching on something. Mark told Mum youd be staying in anyway, glued to the telly. Loads of room there, two floors! We wont get in the way if you change your mind and show up. But, honestly, better if you dont were quite a loud bunch. Davell bring his mates, barbecue in the garden, bit of music… Not really your scene with your books and all.

I could feel my face burning up. In my head I already had the scene playing out: Claires husband Dave, blasting football anthems, his idea of a good laugh being a crate of lager and a singalong, their two teens (whove never heard the word no), and my poor cottage, which Id poured every penny and ounce of energy into these last five years.

No, Claire. Im not giving you the keys, I said, standing my ground. The place isnt set up for that you have to know how to look after the heating in winter, the septic tanks tricky, all sorts. And I dont want a crowd in my home.

Crowd?! she shrieked, going silent for a moment. Were family! Marks sister your own niece and nephew! Youre heartless, thats what you are. Im ringing Mum. Shell know how you welcome family into your home!

Then she hung up. I just stared at the phone, hands actually shaking. I knew this was only the beginning. The real heavyweight Marks mum, Patricia would be joining the fray soon.

Mark wandered in, looking sheepish. Of course hed heard everything, but he just hid in the lounge, hoping Id handle it.

Love, do you have to be so harsh? he started, coming over to put an arm round me. I mean, I know Claires a bit too much sometimes, but theyre family. Theyll take it really personally, you know.

I shrugged him off and met his eyes. I was tired to my bones, but there was no way I was giving in.

Mark, do you remember last spring? I asked quietly.

He grimaced the memory clearly still painful.

Well, yes, I suppose…

Suppose?! My voice got sharper. They said theyd just come for the weekend to do a little barbecue. In two days: your dads apple tree, the one my dad planted, snapped in half; the sitting room carpet burned with charcoal, and after a week of scrubbing the stains still didnt come out; mountain of dishes caked in fat, because Claire said My manicure, and you have a dishwasher dont you? Never mind that they just stuffed everything in with food still on it blocked the filter and nearly broke the thing. And the smashed vase? The peony beds trampled? Or the time they steamed the sauna room, locked everything up, and nearly caught the house on fire?

Theyre just kids, really… he mumbled, staring at the kitchen lino.

Children? Mark, your nephews fifteen. Your niece is thirteen. Not kids old enough to know better. Youre happy leaving them unsupervised for a week in winter?

Well, Dave said hed watch them

Dave will only watch the beer supply. No. I said no. Thats my cottage, I paid for it with the sale of my nans flat and spent years doing it up. Every nail, every paint choice. I will not let them trash it.

The rest of the evening was tense. Mark gave up on the telly and sloped off early to bed. I sat at the kitchen table, tea gone cold, thinking about how wed built that place up. It was my little piece of peace, my escape. Not some free-for-all holiday home for the in-laws.

Next morning Saturday the doorbell rang. Patricia, Marks mum, outside the door, dressed to the nines: fur hat, lipstick, massive bag with a frozen fish tail sticking out. Absolutely typical.

Come on, Alice! Open up! We need to talk! she barked, no hello or anything.

She swept in like a battleship, instantly filling the hallway. Mark dashed out, half-pleased, half-worried.

Mum! You didnt call first!

What, I need an appointment to see my son now? Patricia scoffed, tossing her coat to Mark. Make tea. And get me some Rescue Remedy my hearts been fluttering for days, thanks to you two.

She took up position at the head of the table, as if holding court. I clattered cups and sliced up a little cake, resigned to the oncoming tribunal.

So, darling, she began, sipping her tea with a knowing look, what exactly is it that Claires done wrong? Proper family, your sister-in-law. They ask nicely, just for a break, and you say no with that big empty place of yours. Theyve got builders in, dust everywhere, cant even breathe at home. But your little palace just sits there empty. Is it really too much to ask?

Firstly, I replied, carefully, its not a palace, its a house, and it needs looking after. Secondly, Claires had builders there for five years hardly a new situation. Thats not a reason to descend on us. And lastly, I havent recovered from their last trip. The guest room still stinks of cigarette smoke, even though I specifically asked that no one smoke indoors.

Oh, smoke? You can just air it out, dont be so precious! Patricia threw up her hands. You care too much for things, Alice, not enough for people. Typical bean counter! We raised Mark to be generous. Youre turning him into some sort of miser. Cant take a cottage to your grave, can you?

Mum, Alice has put in so much work… Mark tried, but his mum cut him down flat.

Quiet! Shes got you on a string. And your sister and the kids are supposed to freeze outside? Daves birthdays on the 3rd hes turning forty-five! They planned a proper do, invited everyone, bought the meat. We cant just cancel and look like fools now, can we?

Well, maybe they should have asked before inviting people to someone elses house. I said it straight. Thats just rude, Patricia.

She actually turned purple. Shes used to getting her own way, particularly with Mark, whos never said boo to a goose. But Im not that easy.

Rude? she huffed, hand on her chest. So thats how it is? I took you for family, treated you as a daughter. Mark! Hear how your own wife talks to me? If you dont hand over those keys to Claire by tomorrow, I swear Ill curse that cottage! Ill never set foot there again!

Wouldnt notice, I muttered, since you never do any gardening anyway.

You snake! she snapped, upending a chair as she stood. Mark, give me those keys! Ill get them to Claire myself. Are you the man of the house or not?

Mark just looked between me and his mum, trapped. But he could remember, too, the time Dave ruined the porch jumping about with a barbecue, the hours spent repairing things after. He knew.

The keys are with Alice, he managed. And… to be honest, Mum, maybe were going ourselves.

Rubbish, Patricia spat. I can tell when youre lying. Fine. Clairell be here in the morning. Keys on the table. And write out step-by-step instructions for the heating, too. Or else youre no son of mine. And you, she jabbed a finger at me, youll regret this. What goes around comes around.

And off she stomped, door slamming behind her, echoing round the flat. Only the wall clock made any noise.

Youre not going to hand them over, right? Mark asked, after a long pause.

No, I said. And more than that were going first thing tomorrow. If were not in, theyll just break in. Your sisters crazy enough to crawl through a window if she decides she must. If were there, theyll have to go away.

Thats war, Alice…

Its defending our territory, Mark. Pack a bag.

We left before dawn, when the whole city was still lit with Christmas lights and empty. Mark looked stressed out, especially after I told him to put his phone on silent.

The drive was about ninety minutes there we were, pulling into the little lane, the cottage all pretty with the snow on the roof, like something from a Christmas card. I actually breathed out for the first time in days.

We got the place warmed up, switched on the underfloor heating. I pulled the box of Christmas decorations out the cupboard. By lunch, it already smelt of pine needles and oranges. Mark was outside, happily shovelling snow, and I could see it was just as good for his soul as mine.

But, of course, bang on three oclock, hell broke loose.

Blasting horns at the gate. I looked outside and nearly choked Claires beaten-up Land Rover, plus some random estate car, both full to bursting. Claire in a blinding pink coat, Dave with the jacket open, their kids, a random couple and a massive Rottweiler with no lead. And Patricia, towering over them all, looking like a general.

Mark froze, mid-snow-shovel.

Open up! The guests have arrived! Dave bellowed, his voice echoing across the village.

I grabbed my coat and wellies, went to the front. Mark stood by the gate, not moving.

Mark, come on, were freezing! Claire was yelling. Alice! Dont be a spoilsport, lets have some proper fun its even better since youre here! Lets do Christmas together!

I walked over to Mark, squeezed his shoulder, and said loud enough for all to hear, Hello everyone. We cant accept visitors just now.

Oh, dont start that again! Dave laughed, waving a crate from the boot. Weve brought enough meat for an army, and a box of vodka! Look whos here Tony and his missus, brought their dog, totally friendly, promise she doesnt bite. Let us in!

A dog? I saw the Rottweiler cocking its leg on my favourite tree, which Id carefully wrapped for winter. Get that dog off my plants!

Its only a tree! Claire howled. Come on, open up! Kids need the loo!

Theres a petrol station five miles back, I replied crisply. Like I told you yesterday, the cottage is occupied. Were here, privately. No room for ten people and a dog.

Stunned silence on their side of the gate. They were banking on bulldozing in with sheer numbers and doing the thing where you just turn up and make it impossible to say no.

Youre not going to let us in? Patricia was trembling with rage. Your own mother, out in the cold? Mark! Say something!

Mark turned to me, eyes pleading.

Alice, theyre already here… Please, what can I do?

If you open the gate, Mark, I said, within an hour this place will be chaos. The dogll dig up everything and ruin the rug. The kids will trash the upstairs. Your sister will try and show me how to do my own kitchen, Dave will be smoking in the lounge. Thats the end of our holiday before its started. Is that really what you want? Or would you rather have a peaceful Christmas, just us? Decide. Now.

He surveyed his family Dave kicking the car, Claire screeching, the kids launching snowballs at the windows, Patricia clutching her chest for dramatic effect.

Then he straightened, stepped up to the gate and said, surprisingly steady, Mum, Claire. Alice is right. We warned you were not handing over keys, not expecting visitors. Go home.

What?! they all squawked at once.

I said what I said. Its my home too, and I wont have a circus here. Turn round.

You… You… Dave started, trying to force the lock open.

Leave it, Dave, Mark said, gripping his snow shovel. If you dont go, Ill have to ring the police. Theres security in the village.

Strangers?! Patricia gasped. Were strangers? Damn you both! Im done with you!

Come on, lets go! Claire yelled, pulling Dave. Lets go to Tonys even if its half-finished at least well be welcomed.

Yeah, let’s get moving! Tony agreed, almost grateful to escape the spectacle. Ive got a log burner, well manage.

Engines started up, wheels spinning in the snow, the convoy trundled off, Claire flipping a rude gesture, Patricia stony-faced in the front seat.

After five minutes, silence. Only a yellow stain on my trees cover reminded me theyd been.

Mark dropped the shovel, slumped on the steps with his head in his hands.

God, we just turned my whole family out. What a disaster.

I sat next to him, hugged him close.

Its not a disaster, Mark. Thats you, standing up for us. Not just letting them take over. Our family comes first, not their clan.

She wont forgive me, he said.

Oh, shell be back, the moment she needs something. Money, a lift, a hand with more builders… Shes always back. But now, they know the boundaries. You did the right thing.

You think so?

I know so. And if she doesnt come round, well, our life just got a lot quieter. Come in, youre freezing. Ill make mulled wine.

We went in, I drew the curtains, shut out the outside world and all the noise. That evening, we curled up in front of the fire, not talking much not awkward silence, just the good sort, full of understanding.

Three perfect days like that: walking in the woods, a private barbecue, a peaceful sauna, reading books. No calls, no drama radio silence from his lot.

Then, right on Daves birthday, Mark gets a text from Claire. Not an apology just a photo: some half-finished shed, a folding stove, table drowning in bottles, everyone flushed and wild-eyed. Having a blast without you! Bet youre jealous!

I glanced at it, at the sticky table and Daves red face, and then at Mark, peacefully passed out with a book in his lap. Not jealous, Claire, not in the slightest, I whispered, and deleted the message.

A week later, once we were back in London, Patricia rang Mark herself. Still playing the wounded act, but asked for a lift to come to her hospital appointment. Not a single word about the cottage. The boundary had been set. There were the odd skirmishes after, but the line held.

And you know what? Sometimes you have to be the bad guy for others, just to stay good to yourself and protect your own. Those cottage keys now? Safely in my locked desk drawer. Just in case.