My Husband’s Relatives Invited Themselves to Our Cottage for the Holidays—But I Refused to Hand Over the Keys — “So, we’ve had a little think and decided: why let your cottage stand empty? We’re taking the kids there for the Christmas break. Fresh air, a sledding hill nearby, we’ll fire up the sauna. Len, you’re always at work anyway and Vitya needs a rest—though he says he’d rather catch up on sleep. So, hand over those keys, we’ll drop by first thing tomorrow morning.” Svetlana, my husband’s sister, spoke so loudly and matter-of-factly on the phone that I actually had to hold the receiver away. I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, drying a plate, trying to process what I’d just heard. My husband’s relatives have always been notorious for their cheek, but this boldness was next-level. “Hang on a minute, Svet,” I replied, careful to keep my voice steady despite my growing irritation. “Who exactly decided this? The cottage isn’t some public hotel. It’s our house, not a holiday camp. And, for your information, we were planning to spend the break there ourselves—” “Oh, give over!” Svetlana interrupted, her mouth obviously full. “You ‘were planning!’ Vitya told Mum you’d be at home in front of the telly. Your place is huge, two floors. We won’t be in the way—not if you do turn up. Though, honestly, best not—we’re a lively bunch. Gena’s invited mates over: barbecue, music… You’d just get bored with your books.” I felt my cheeks flush. The scene appeared in my mind instantly: Gena’s loud-mouthed drinking buddies, the two wild teenagers who ignore every ‘no’, and my poor cottage—the one I’d poured five years and all my savings into. “No, Svetlana,” I said firmly. “You’re not getting the keys. The cottage isn’t ready for guests: you have to know how to winter the heating, the septic’s fussy, and frankly, I don’t want a crowd trampling through.” “We’re ‘crowd’ now?!” my sister-in-law shrieked. “Your husband’s own sister and your nephews! Has working in accountancy made you heartless or something? I’m calling Mum and telling her how you treat family!” The line went dead. I set the phone on the table, hands shaking. This was only the first salvo—the big guns (my mother-in-law, of course) were still to come. Viktor popped into the kitchen, sheepish. “Lena, do you have to be so blunt? Svetlana’s a lot of things, but they’re still family. They’ll be offended, you know.” I shrugged him off, meeting his eyes with a weariness I knew he recognised. “Vitya, do you remember last May?” He winced. “You mean—” “Exactly! Two days’ ‘quick barbecue’ ended with a broken apple tree, burn marks all over the carpet, and a washing-up fiasco because ‘I’ve got a manicure and your dishwasher can cope’—except they just loaded it with greasy dishes and blocked the filter. And you know what your nephew did to the sauna. You want them unsupervised, in winter—for a week?” “They said they’d be careful…” Viktor mumbled. “Gena’s idea of careful is making sure the vodka doesn’t run out,” I snapped, turning to the window. “No. The answer’s no. This is my home, both on paper and in fact. Every nail, every curtain, every brick in that place. I won’t see it turned into a pigsty.” Silence fell. Viktor retreated to the lounge; I sat in the kitchen, cradling my cold tea. This wasn’t just a cottage. It was our dream. For me, sanctuary—three years rebuilding it with every spare penny, painting, sewing, sanding with my own hands. For his relatives, just a ‘free holiday camp’. Next morning, the doorbell rang. My mother-in-law, Nina Petrovna, appeared, upright and stern as ever. “Let me in, Lena! We need to talk!” she barked. In the kitchen, cup of tea in hand, she launched her inquisition. “So what’s wrong with Svetlana, then? Family just wants a bit of rest, and you’d rather your palace sits empty?” “Nina Petrovna,” I said as calmly as I could. “First, it’s not a palace. Second, Svetlana’s always been ‘doing up’ her flat; that’s not a reason to occupy our place. Third, last time they were there, I’m still trying to get tobacco out of the guest curtains, though I did ask—no smoking inside.” “Honestly, Lena, you care more for things than for people,” my mother-in-law burst out. “Vitya was raised to be generous—now he’s become stingy. You can’t take your cottage to the grave!” “Mum, Lena did pour herself into it—” Viktor began. “Hush! Letting your wife boss you around! While your sister and their children freeze. Gena’s 45th birthday’s booked in for the third—guests invited, the meat’s in the boot! What, we should cancel and lose face?” “That’s not my problem if they’ve decided to invite people to someone else’s house!” I shot back. She flushed deep red, but I didn’t flinch. In the end, Nina Petrovna left in a dramatic huff, vowing never to set foot in ‘my’ home again. Cautious, Viktor whispered later, “You won’t give them the keys, will you?” “No, Vitya. And in fact—tomorrow, we go to the cottage. Us.” “But—your reports—you had work—” “Plans change. If we don’t stake our ground, they’ll overrun it. Your sister would break in through the window if she wanted.” He sighed. “This is a war…” “It’s defending our boundaries. Pack your bags.” We drove out pre-dawn, arriving to a storybook snowed-in cottage. I exhaled, finally calm. We aired out the rooms, lit the fires, dug out Christmas baubles. Viktor took up the snow shovel—I saw he needed this as well. At 3 p.m., the peace shattered—blaring horns at the gate. Svetlana and Gena’s ancient Jeep, friends, children, even a couple we didn’t know—with a hulking, unleashed Rottweiler. And, at the head, Nina Petrovna. “Open up, we’ve arrived!” Gena bellowed. From the porch, Viktor and I faced them down. “Lenka, stop it—this is a surprise! We’ll all celebrate together!” “We weren’t expecting guests,” I called out, voice firm. “The cottage is full, just the two of us. Ten of you and a dog—no chance.” They gaped, stunned—unaccustomed to resistance. “You won’t let your own mother freeze?” Nina Petrovna gasped. Viktor glanced at the crowd, then at me. I locked eyes with him and said, “This is the choice. Them—or us,” spelling out exactly why. Viktor straightened his shoulders. “Mum, Svetlana. Lena’s right. We said no. Please leave.” “How dare you?!” the chorus rose in outrage. Gena lunged for the latch; Viktor calmly picked up the shovel, “I will call the police.” Cursing, they stomped off—Svetlana making obscene gestures, Nina Petrovna stone-faced in the passenger seat. Just like that, they were gone. Viktor collapsed onto the steps, covering his face. “God, what a disgrace… my own mother…” I slid close and wrapped him in a hug. “Not a disgrace, Vitya. You just protected us—your family. And finally drew the line. They’ll respect it in time. Or not. Either way, we’ll have our peace.” That holiday was quiet bliss—just the two of us: snowy walks, barbecue for two, books, the warmth of our own home. The relatives announced a boycott; we enjoyed the peaceful silence. I realised something big: sometimes you have to be the ‘bad guy’ for others to be good for yourself—and to keep your family safe. And from now on, the cottage keys were locked away. Just in case. ***

My husbands lot have decided that our cottage shouldnt sit idle over Christmas, piped up my sister-in-law Susan over the phone, with the sort of cheery authority usually reserved for air traffic controllers or headteachers. So were taking the kids down for the New Year holidays. Fresh air, proper hill for the sledges, well get the log burner going. Youre always off up in London with work, and I know Martin wants a break but says hed rather catch up on sleep. So just hand the keys over, well swing by first thing tomorrow.

I stood rooted in the middle of the kitchen, drying a plate, phone held away from my ear to avoid the piercing volume. Susan. Loud as a brass band, as presumptuous as ever. I shouldnt have been surprised the cheek on Martins relations was legendary by now but this was bold even by their standards.

Hang on, Susan, I said, my tone measured, trying in vain to smother the rising irritation. Who exactly made this decision? Its not a community hall or a holiday camp, its Martins and my cottage. We were planning on going ourselves, for your information.

Oh, dont be silly! Susan scoffed, mouth clearly full of something. Martin told Mum youd be staying in watching telly all week! And youve got loads of space two floors! We wont be under your feet. Well, better for you not to bother coming, actually well have a few friends round, bit of a bash, nothing too wild, but I know how you and your novels need your peace and quiet.

My face grew hot. Instantly I pictured Susans husband Dave blasting dubious Dad-rock, their two feral teenage offspring who treated rules as open for debate, and my poor cottage, my pride, my nest egg, being treated like a student bar by the extended family.

No, Susan, I said, voice steely. Im not giving you the keys. The place isnt ready for guests you have to know what youre doing with the pipes in winter, and the septic tanks a law unto itself. Besides, frankly, Im not letting a crowd of people run riot in our home.

What, were a crowd now? Susan shrieked, finally pausing her munching. Im your husbands own sister! Thats your niece and nephew youre dismissing! Is this what the accountancys done to you? Im ringing Mum and telling her exactly how you treat family!

There was a series of sharp beeps as she slammed down the line. I put my phone carefully on the table, hands trembling. This was just round one, I knew. The heavy artillery would be along soon enough my mother-in-law Barbara, the familys Churchill. The siege was about to commence.

Martin crept in sheepishly a minute later. Obviously, hed overheard but preferred to lurk in the lounge and let me take the flak.

Come on, Jane, that was a bit harsh, he started diplomatically, moving to give me a hug. I mean, Susan can be a bit much, sure, but theyre still family. No need to make it awkward.

I shook him off and turned to face him fully, a mixture of exhaustion and resolve in my eyes that made him falter.

Do you remember last May? I asked quietly.

Martin grimaced like hed bitten into a lemon.

Yeah. Vaguely

Vaguely? My voice rose. They popped down for just a weekend and left us with a snapped apple tree, the one Dad planted, a burn mark on the new rug from someones barbecue skewers, a weeks worth of filthy dishes because Susan had a manicure and theres a dishwasher, though they never actually switched it on, just crammed everything in until it jammed! Not to mention the shattered vase and flattened peonies in the borders.

Theyre just kids messing about Martin mumbled, eyes fixed on the lino.

Kids? Simons fifteen and Daisys thirteen. Not exactly playing in the sandpit, are they? And the sauna incident? Managed to almost set the outbuilding on fire because they didnt know how to work the damper! I was bordering on a full-blown rant. And you expect me to let them stay, unsupervised, for a WEEK, in DECEMBER?

They promised to be careful Dave said hed keep an eye on everything.

Dave only notices if the beer runs out! I spun towards the window. No, Martin. I mean it. Its not happening. Its my place as much as yours. I poured every penny from Grans flat into that renovation, scrimped and did half the work myself. Im not letting it be treated like some cut-price Airbnb.

We spent a frosty evening in silence. Martin tried to flick through the channels, but gave up and retreated to bed. I sat in the kitchen, drinking lukewarm tea, remembering how wed rebuilt the old place. Not just some holiday home my sanctuary, my escape from the London grind. For me, it was a haven; for Martins lot, simply a free B&B with WiFi and a garden for the dog.

The next morning, a knock thundered at the door. I checked the peephole and sighed Barbara, fully armoured in her fur hat, lipstick blaring, massive bag in hand, a frozen cods tail poking out.

Open up, Jane! We need a word! she bellowed, bypassing hellos.

Barbara glided in like HMS Queen Elizabeth, occupying the hall before anyone else caught their breath. Martin popped into sight, caught between delight and dread. Mum, didnt know youd be in town

Oh, cant a mother drop in now? Martin, coat! She peeled off her Christmas best and flung it at Martin. Put the kettle on, darling. Ill need valerian too, the stress you two have caused me.

She set up shop in the kitchen, a judge behind her tea and Victoria sponge. I didnt bother arguing; I just cut her a generous slice and braced myself.

Now, whats Susan done to deserve this? Barbara began, sipping her tea as if she were all warmth and reason. She just asks for the keys so the children can have a break from the dust their flats a building site! Meanwhile, your palace sits empty. Dont tell me youre being petty?

Barbara, its not a palace its a cottage, I answered, locking eyes. And Susans renovation has been ongoing since the Olympics. Frankly, after last time, Im still trying to get stale smoke out of the guest curtains, despite asking very clearly for no smoking inside.

Oh, a few cigarettes open a window! Jane, honestly, youre fussing about things and forgetting people. Its called materialism. We raised Martin to be generous. Youre turning him into some old miser. You cant take the house in the coffin, you know!

Mum, Janes invested a lot into the place, Martin attempted, but Barbara cut him off.

Hush, Martin! Since when did your wife make all the decisions? Dont you care about your sister and her kids being homeless over the holidays? Daves turning 45 and wants to have a proper bash! Guests invited, sausages bought whatre they supposed to do now, cancel?

Well, maybe they shouldnt have invited the entire parish before asking the owners, I pointed out. Thats just rude, Barbara.

She flushed darkly. Argument wasnt her usual sport; intimidation was. Rude? Is that what we are now? I welcomed you into this family, treated you like my own. Martin, are you hearing this? If you dont hand over those keys, Ill never set foot in your house again!

Well, you never do we both know you avoid anything involving compost, I muttered under my breath.

You cheeky madam! Barbara lurched to her feet. Martin, give me the keys! Ill give them to Susan myself. Honestly, are you head of this house or not?

Martin looked between us, caught in a crossfire of loyalty. His childhood fear of his mother fought with his grown-up guilt. He remembered, as I did, how hed spent a whole Sunday fixing the porch Dave broke, trying to haul in a barbecue during a thunderstorm.

Mum, Janes got the keys, he said at last. And actually we might be going ourselves this weekend.

Rubbish! snapped Barbara. Heres whats going to happen: Susan and Dave are turning up sharpish in the morning. The keys are to be on the table with instructions for the boiler. Or, Martin, youre no son of mine! And you, Jane youll regret this. The world goes round, you know.

Slamming the door, she marched off. The only sound left was the kitchen clock ticking disapprovingly.

Youre not really going to give in? Martin asked, much later.

Never, I told him. And, actually, were going to the cottage tomorrow. Ourselves.

But you wanted to finish your reports

Change of plans. If we dont show up, theyll march right in. Your sisters the type to shimmy up the drainpipe if she absolutely must. But with us there, theyll have to back down.

This is war, Jane.

No, Martin. This is border control. Get packing.

We set off before dawn, the city still blinking in festive lights. Martin nervously checked his phone, but Id put it on silent. The drive was peaceful, just over an hour of empty A-roads and snowy hedgerows. When we arrived, the cottage looked straight out of a Christmas card snow-capped, beaming, quietly waiting for us.

We lit the fire and the underfloor heating, I unearthed tinsel and baubles, and by lunch the whole place smelt gloriously of pine and clementines. Martin dug his way down the path in an uncharacteristic burst of cheer. He needed this too, even if hed never admit it.

All was tranquil until, at 3pm, air-raid sirens in the form of car horns shattered the peace.

Through the kitchen window I spied two cars, one Daves battered Jeep, another full of strangers. The entire family poured out: Susan in fluorescent parka, Dave in his Christmas jumper, the kids, a mystery couple, and a colossal Rottweiler dragging along behind. Barbara presided over the lot, looking majestic and faintly menacing.

Martin, shovel in hand, froze.

Let us in, were freezing here! barked Dave, his tone echoing round the quiet fields.

I slipped on my boots and padded out to the porch. Martin was by the gate, dithering on the latch.

Martin, open up the kids need the toilet! Susan hollered, rattling the gate. Jane, where are you? We thought wed surprise you! Now we can all celebrate together! Isnt it brilliant?

I laid a firm hand on Martins shoulder and spoke loudly. Hello. We werent expecting any guests.

Oh, pack it in! Dave guffawed, breath clouding the air. Surprise! We brought meat, a crate of lager. Even brought Roger and Karen and their dog shes a darling, wouldnt hurt a fly.

A dog? I noticed, wincing, as the Rottweiler relieved himself enthusiastically against my manicured yew topiary. Please get the dog off my plants.

Oh, its just a tree! Susan crowed. Anyway, let us in the kids are dying for the loo!

They can use the facilities at the petrol station, five miles that way, I said crisply. I told you yesterday: were here, the cottage is occupied. Theres no room for ten people and an incontinent Rottweiler.

A heavy silence hung over the garden. They hadnt expected to be turned away, especially not en masse and with Barbara present. This was their trademark move overwhelm by numbers.

Youre really not letting us in? Barbaras voice was low and trembling with outrage. Youll leave your own mother outside in the cold? Martin! Say something!

Martin turned helplessly. Jane, come on Theyve already driven all the way Is it really necessary?

Yes, Martin, it is, I held his gaze. If you let them in now, itll be wall-to-wall noise in an hour. The dog will destroy the garden and make a mess on the hearth rug, the kids will trash the upstairs, Susan will instruct me on how to boil a potato in my own oven, and Dave will light up in the lounge. Is that what you want on your New Years break, or are you with me? Choose now.

He glanced at the rest, now a mob by the lane, Dave kicking his own tyres and Susan yelling something about heartless cows, the kids lobbing snowballs at the windows, and Barbara clutching her chest like Lady Bracknell in a fit.

Martin straightened up, took the shovel, and addressed the assembled horde, not shouting but loud enough:

Mum, Susan Janes right. We said no keys, we didnt invite anyone. Please leave.

Their reaction was immediate, shrill, and appalled.

You heard, he said, firmer. Its my house as well. And I dont want a circus this year. Please, go.

Dave started to push at the gate, muttering dark oaths.

Back off, Dave, Martin warned, gripping the shovel. Ill ring the police and say weve got intruders. The estates got private security, you know.

INTRUDERS?! spluttered Barbara. Were intruders now, are we? Curse you both! Dont expect to see me again!

Lets go! shrieked Susan, grabbing Daves sleeve. Theyre bonkers! Well go to Rogers at least hes got a wood-burner and proper manners!

Roger, visibly embarrassed, piped up: I do, actually. Lets head off, everyone. The convoy spun off in a noisy retreat; Susan gave me a singularly rude gesture through the window, Barbara stared dead ahead, face like granite, refusing a backward glance.

Within moments, only the faint pawprints in the snow and an unfortunate yellow stain on my yew tree marked their siege.

Martin collapsed on the porch, head in hands.

God, that was mortifying, he muttered. My own mother.

I sat beside him, slipped an arm around his shoulders. Not mortifying, Martin. Grown up. You defended your family not the clan, but us.

Shell never let me forget this

She will when she needs something again. Prescription or help with her boiler. Thats how they operate. But now they know: this is the line. Theyll begin to respect it. Or at least, well have more peace. I nudged him. Lets go in, or youll freeze. Ill whip up some proper mulled wine.

We shut out the world, drew the curtains, let the warmth wrap around us. That evening, we sat by the fire, listening to the logs crackle, saying little and needing to say even less. Not the silence of argument, but a lovely, restful quiet.

The next three days were bliss walking through the woods, a barbecue for two, hot baths, and pages of undisturbed reading. Martins relatives held a pointed silence (bliss of its own).

On the third of January, Martins phone beeped: Susan, naturally. Not an apology, of course. Just a picture a bleak shed, a wood-burner, bottles scattered about, flushed faces, and a hearty caption: Look, were having a blast without you! Jealous, are you?

I looked at the photo, at the mess, the glazed faces, then over at Martin, napping peacefully by the hearth, book resting on his chest.

Jealous isnt quite the word, Susan, I whispered, deleting the message.

A week later, back in town, Barbara called. Brisk and slightly chilly, she ordered Martin to escort her to her GP. Not one word about the cottage. The borders, it seemed, held firm. Thered still be skirmishes, but the fortress would not be breached.

If Ive learnt anything, its this: sometimes you have to play the bad guy for others if it means being true to yourself and protecting your own. As for the cottage keys, theyre not on the hall table anymore but locked in my safe, just in case.