“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” I nearly shout at my sister-in-law but bite my tongue. And here she is again, lugging her suitcase for the weekend…
“You’re wearing me out!” I almost yell at my husband’s sister. I clench my jaw. Yet again, she turns up on our doorstep, bag in hand, uninvited.
My name is Emily, and Im thirty-nine. Ive been married to James for twelve years. Were a solid little familyour son is growing up, everything seems fine. But theres one *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 andwell, in reality, she lives with us too. Im not exaggerating. She drifts into our flat like a shadowsilent, persistent, every single day. Sometimes I think Margaret has an endless stash of keys to our building.
At first, I tried to be polite, even kind. After all, shes Jamess sister, family. I told myself shed pop round, have a chat, drink a cuppa, and leave. But she came every evening. And weekends. And during our holidays. Even when we had other guests over. When I was ill, she was there.
Margaret has no boundaries. She comments on everythingmy cooking, how we raise our son, the way I dress. One minute Im too quiet, the next I laugh too loudly, my cake is too dry, or the flat is “a mess.” Worst of all, she doesnt askshe demands. And I put up with it. Because I hate confrontation. Because James says, “Emily, make an effort. Shes on her ownwere all shes got.”
Ive been patient. But patience has its limits.
Margaret works as an accountant for a private firm. She finishes before me andguess whatheads straight to ours. I come home, and there she is, sprawled on the sofa, telly on, the cat hiding under the bed. My son glued to his phone. And her, acting like she owns the place. Dinners waiting. Or Im the one waiting for her to finally vacate the loo. She eats with us, then drones on for hours about her “adventures” at the tax office, which no one listens to. Then she leaves. Well, sometimesshe stays the night because shes “scared of thunderstorms” or her “heatings on the blink.”
When we planned a getaway, Margaret tagged along. Never mind that I dreamed of a romantic weekend. Never mind that James promised me a seaside trip for my birthday. Margaret was there. In our hotel room. Under the same roof. All paid for by James. And yet, she earns well, saves up “for a rainy day,” as she puts it. Apparently, that rainy day is me.
Jamess mother thinks Im ungrateful. “Margarets not a strangershes lonely and needs us,” she says. I get that shes single 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 shrugged. “What do you want me to do? Shes my sister…”
Recently, it hit breaking point. We went to the theatre, just the two of us. Id insisted on it. A friend was watching our son. The moment we settled into our seatsher ringtone. Margaret.
“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, fingers gripping the edge of the table. I swallowed my scream. I stayed silent. But something inside me snapped.
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 I fear that if nothing changes, Ill end up walking away. Just to breathe. Because even love cant survive when another life wedges itself between you and your husbandtoo loud. Too invasive. Too much.
Today, Ive realised something: you cant build happiness on silence. You have to set boundaries, even with family. Because no one should live trapped in forced generosity.
