**Diary Entry**
*Oh, for goodness sake!* I nearly yelled at my sister-in-law, but I bit my tongue. And just like that, shes back again with her suitcase for the weekend *Honestly, youre exhausting!* I almost screamed at my husbands sister. I clenched my teeth. And there she was, turning up once more with her overnight bag, as if it were her second home.
My name is Emily, and Im thirty-nine. Ive been married to James for twelve years. Were a solid little familyour sons growing up, everything seems fine on the surface. But theres a *but* thats been poisoning my life for years: his sister, Margaret.
Margaret is eight years older than James. Never married, no children. She lives alone in the house across the street, yet somehow, she lives *here* too. Im not exaggerating. She drifts into our flat like a shadowsilent, persistent, every single day. Sometimes I swear Margaret has an endless supply of keys to our building.
At first, I tried to be polite, even kind. After all, shes family. I told myself shed pop round for a cuppa, have a chat, and leave. But she came every evening. And weekends. And holidays. Even when we had other guests. If I was poorly, shed be there, hovering.
Margaret doesnt know boundaries. She comments on *everything*my cooking, how were raising our son, even my outfits. One minute Im too quiet, the next Im laughing too loudly, my cakes too dry or the flats “a mess.” Worst of all, she doesnt askshe *expects*. And I let her. Because I hate confrontation. Because James says, *”Emily, make an effort. Shes lonelywere all shes got.”*
Ive been patient. But patience has its limits.
Margaret works as an accountant for a private firm. She finishes before me and heads straight *here*. I come homeshes already sprawled on the sofa, telly on, the cat hiding under the bed. Our son glued to his phone. And her, acting like she owns the place. Dinners waiting. Or *Im* waiting for her to finish in the bathroom. She eats with us, then drones on for hours about her “adventures” at workstories no one listens to. Eventually, she leaves. Or *not*sometimes she stays over because shes “scared of storms” or her “heatings broken.”
When we planned a getaway, Margaret tagged along. Never mind if I dreamed of a romantic weekend. Never mind that James promised me a seaside trip for my birthday. She was there. In our hotel room. Under the same roof. All paid for by James. Yet she earns well, saves money “for a rainy day,” as she puts it. Apparently, that rainy day is *me*.
And Jamess mum thinks Im ungrateful. *”Margarets not a strangershes alone and needs us,”* she says. I get that shes unmarried and childless. But why should I sacrifice my own peace for it?
Once, I dared to tell James:
*”Ive had enough. She crosses every line. Shes everywhere. Its unbearable!”*
He just shrugged.
*”What do you want me to do? Shes my sister”*
Recently, it hit breaking point. We went to the theatrejust us. Id insisted on it. A friend watched our son. The moment we settled into our seatsher call.
*”Where are you? Why wasnt I invited? Are you trying to cut me out of your lives?”* she shrieked down the phone.
Two days later, she was back. With her bag. Her nightdress. Her box set. *”My weekends freeIve decided to spend it with you,”* she announced.
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the table. I swallowed my scream. I stayed silent. But something inside me shattered.
I dont know how to tell James I cant take it anymore. That I need a home without a third adult. Without constant advice. Without drama. Without *Margaret*.
And Im afraid if nothing changes, Ill end up leaving. Just to breathe. Because even love cant survive when another life wedges itself between you and your husband. Too loud. Too suffocating. Too *much*.
Today, I realised something: you cant build happiness on silence. You have to set boundarieseven with family. Because no one should live trapped in forced generosity.
