**Diary Entry**
*”Why won’t you just leave me alone?”* I nearly shouted at my husband’s sister. But I bit my tongue. And there she was—yet again—standing in our doorway with her weekend bag.
My name is Emily, and I’m thirty-nine. I’ve been married to William for twelve years. We have a decent, stable family—a son, a home, everything should be fine. Yet there’s one shadow that’s poisoned my life for years: his sister, Margaret.
Margaret is eight years older than William. Never married, no children. Lives alone in the house across the street and… practically in ours too. I’m not exaggerating. She slips into our flat like a ghost—quiet, persistent, daily. Sometimes I swear she keeps a spare key to our building in her handbag, ready at all times.
At first, I tried politeness, even warmth. Well, family is family, after all. I thought she’d pop in for tea, a chat, then leave. Instead, she came every evening. Weekends. Holidays. Even when we had other guests. When I was sick—she still turned up.
Margaret has no filter. Everything is up for comment: my cooking, my parenting, my clothes. I’m too quiet or laugh too loud. The pie’s too dry; the flat isn’t spotless. And worst of all—she doesn’t ask, she demands. I swallow it all because I hate drama. Because William says, *”Em, just bear with her. She’s got no one else but us.”*
I bore it. But patience isn’t endless.
Margaret works as an accountant at a private firm. Gets home before me and… heads straight to ours. I walk in—she’s already on the sofa, the telly blaring, our cat hiding under the bed. Our son glued to his phone. And her? Acting like she owns the place. Dinner’s waiting. Or worse—*I’m* waiting for her to finish in the bath. She eats with us, then drones on for hours about her “adventures” at the tax office—stories no one listens to. Then, finally, she leaves. Unless she stays over, because *”the storm’s too loud”* or *”the heating’s dodgy”* at hers.
When we planned trips—Margaret came too. Never mind that I dreamed of a weekend alone with my husband. Never mind that he’d promised me a birthday trip to Brighton. She was there. In our hotel room. In the next bed. All paid for by William. Meanwhile, she earns well, saves up, *”for a rainy day,”* as she puts it. Seems she thinks that rainy day is *me*.
William’s mum reckons I’m ungrateful. *”She’s not a stranger; she’s just lonely,”* she says. And I get it—Margaret has no family, no kids. But why must *I* pay with my peace?
Once, I finally told William outright:
*”I’ve had enough. She crosses every line. She’s everywhere. I can’t take it!”*
He just shrugged. *”What am I supposed to do? She’s my sister…”*
Then came the final straw. We managed a rare night out—just us. I begged for it, arranged for a friend to watch our son. The theatre lights dimmed—then her call.
*”Where are you? Why wasn’t I invited? Cutting me out now, are you?”* she screeched.
Two days later, she was back. Overnight bag. Nightdress. Her dreadful soaps. *”My weekend’s free—thought I’d spend it with you.”*
I gripped the kitchen counter, barely holding back a scream. But I stayed silent. Inside, though? Something snapped.
I don’t know how to tell William I can’t do this anymore. That I need a home without a third adult. Without endless opinions. Without scenes. Without Margaret.
And I’m terrified that if nothing changes—one day, I’ll have to walk away. Just to breathe freely again. Because even love can’t survive when there’s another life wedged between you and your husband. Too loud. Too clingy. Too much.
**Lesson learned:** Blood may be thicker than water, but without boundaries, it drowns you.
