Our Relatives Came to Visit and Brought Us Gifts — Then Soon Demanded We Serve Them at the Table

Author Emily TaylorReading 2 minViews 1

Our relatives came to visit us and brought some gifts with them. And before long, they asked if we could put them out on the table.

One afternoon, my relatives announced they would be coming round. Naturally, Id told them in advance that we were struggling a bit, barely managing these days.

Not that were starving, but life is far from comfortable. Im a pensioner, and my son doesnt earn much either; we can hardly afford to host guests. Still, they turned upnot empty-handed, but bearing all sorts of food and presents.

My son thanked them kindly for the gifts, and we quietly put them away. As Id made perfectly clear, things were tight for us. At lunch there was bread and butter, a few biscuits, and some tea. Our relatives ate in silence, wearing sour expressions, but didnt say a word. I didnt careId told them the truth: moneys short; this is how we live. We gave what we had.

Supper was light: a simple soup, bread, a bit of cream cheese, some cold meat sandwiches, and more tea. They must have been expecting something grander, because the disappointment on their faces said it all.

Eventually, one of them asked rather pointedly why we hadnt put out what theyd brought. I listened, baffled. Were their gifts for us, or had they meant them for themselves? If the food was for their dinner, they might have just asked us to pop it in the fridge.

The discussion went on and on, growing heated, until the next day when they packed their things and left. To be honest, I couldnt care less where they spent the night. I dont want such people in my house. At least they left behind a few things: cakes, a bit of liver, some meringues, some fruitsomething good out of their visit, anyway. Tonight, my son and I will have a nice cup of tea and share one of those lovely cakes.

You’re Loaded, Aren’t You? My Wife’s Sister Borrowed Money and Then Took Off on a Beach Holiday This summer, my wife’s beloved sister came to visit us. I jokingly call her “the golden child” as at every family gathering, Mum, Dad, and everyone else talk about her—she was a star student, graduated from university, landed a job in her field, isn’t she just the perfect daughter? Meanwhile, the eldest (my wife) never finished her studies and got married early. But no one seemed to mind, since I was fairly well-off, running my own business. I owned a flat, a car, and had a good income. Yet despite that, the real star was always my wife’s younger sister. And so it happened that this summer, my sister-in-law showed up on our doorstep asking to borrow money; she wanted to put down a deposit for her first flat but didn’t have enough saved. It wasn’t a huge sum for me, so I agreed to help. She promised she’d pay it back every month—as she worked for the council, she’d said, “You can count on me.” So, I lent her the money—and she pretty much swore she’d pay me back each month. But not even a week later, off she went on a seaside holiday. Honestly, I was left dumbfounded; how could someone skint enough to not afford a mortgage deposit suddenly have cash for a trip to the coast? She told the family she’d saved all year for her holiday, but what was curious is that she still hadn’t applied for any mortgage. When I asked, she just said she’d changed her mind. I politely asked her to return the money, to which she replied she was broke and had spent it all at the seaside. That’s when it hit me—she’d never planned on buying that flat at all. I asked her again, as nicely as I could, to pay back what she owed, explaining that I’d lent her money for a deposit, not a holiday in Blackpool. Her response stung: “I’ll be earning loads soon—you can wait, I haven’t got the cash now.” And how do you think the story ended? Exactly as you’d expect—she told my mother-in-law that I’d asked for the money back too early, insisted that’s not how you treat family, and, once again, she was the angelic youngest daughter and we were just the ‘rich villains’ in the family story!

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My True Wife – “How have you managed to stay married to the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” my brother would ask every time he visited. “Love and endless patience. That’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “That’s not for me! I love all women. Every woman is a mystery, and I have no interest in living with a book I’ve already read,” he’d smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. Sweet Anna loved Peter with her whole heart, but Peter only amused himself with her. Anna settled into our crowded family home, where seven relatives lived. She gave birth to their son, Matthew, feeling sure that happiness was within her grasp. The young couple was given a tiny room of their own. Anna cherished her precious collection of porcelain figurines—ten rare pieces, lovingly displayed on an old dresser. Our large family knew how much these delicate figures meant to her. Anna would often admire them, lost in thought. At that time, I myself was considering starting a family and was searching for that one special woman. In the end, my wish came true; my wife and I have been happily married for over fifty years. Peter lived with Anna for ten years. Anna had little to boast of in this marriage; she tried to be a good wife and loved her husband and son deeply—obedient, gentle, and easygoing. But Peter wanted something more. One evening, Peter came home drunk and started picking on Anna, joking coarsely and grabbing her by the arms. Sensing trouble, Anna quietly left the room with little Matthew. Suddenly, a terrible crash echoed from inside. Anna instinctively knew what it was—the sound of her treasured figurines smashing. Dashing back, she saw her beloved collection shattered on the floor. Only one figurine had survived. Anna picked it up and kissed it quietly, her eyes brimming with tears. She said nothing. A crack formed in their marriage that night. From then on, Anna seemed to live outside the family in her mind. Though she did her duties and was a model wife and homemaker, it was all without passion, just going through the motions. Peter began drinking more often, and soon started bringing home crude new friends—reckless women and shady characters. Anna suspected everything, but withdrew in silence, becoming distant and lost. Peter stopped coming home altogether, abandoning his family. Anna understood that, as the saying goes, you can’t catch the wind in the field. Eventually, Anna and Peter divorced quietly, without argument or blame. Anna took Matthew and left for her hometown. The one surviving figurine was left behind as a memory. Peter didn’t waste time mourning. He began living wild and free, without rules or commitments. He fell easily in and out of love, and was married and divorced three times. He loved drinking himself unconscious. Despite all this, Peter was a top economist at a London university—he even co-authored a well-known textbook and was seen as having a brilliant future until alcohol and his chaotic lifestyle undid it all. Eventually, our family believed Peter had settled down after marrying a “spectacular” woman with a seventeen-year-old son. At their modest wedding, it was obvious that Peter and his new stepson would never get along. The inevitable happened—after five years and several violent quarrels, Peter and his wife parted ways. Then more fleeting lovers circled Peter—Lisa, Natalie, Sophie. He loved them all, swept up in each affair as if it would last forever. But fate had its own plans. At fifty-three, Peter was diagnosed with a terminal illness. By then, none of his beloved women remained; they had all quietly slipped away. My sisters and I cared for Peter in his final days. “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed. Hand it to me,” Peter struggled to speak. Under the bed, I found a dusty suitcase. When I opened it, I was shocked—it was full of porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped in a soft cloth. “These… I collected for Anna. I’ve never forgotten her silent reproach the day her collection was smashed. She put up with so much from me. You remember all those work trips across the country? I bought figurines everywhere I went. There’s a false bottom in the suitcase—take the money you’ll find there, too. Give it all to my true wife. Ask her to forgive me. We’ll never meet again. Simon, you must promise you’ll bring these to Anna.” Peter turned away. “I promise, Peter. I’ll do it,” my voice caught in my throat. I knew my brother was slipping away for good. “You’ll find Anna’s address under my pillow,” Peter whispered. He never turned to face me again. Anna still lived in her childhood town; Matthew was unwell with a mysterious illness. Doctors shrugged and suggested going to Europe for help—something I learned from a letter Anna had written, which was under Peter’s pillow. As it turned out, Anna had always kept in touch with her ex-husband, though only by letter—Peter never replied. After Peter’s funeral, I set out to fulfill his last wish. Anna met me at a quiet train station and hugged me warmly: “Oh, Simon, you and Peter look so alike—two peas in a pod!” I handed her the suitcase and gently apologized, as Peter had asked: “Anna, forgive your wayward husband. Here’s something from Peter—money, and a bit more. You’ll see when you get home. Remember, you were always Peter’s true wife. Never forget that.” We parted for good. Later, I received a single letter from Anna: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Matthew and I sold the figurines to a true collector; I couldn’t bear to look at them—every one had passed through Peter’s hands. It’s sad he left us so soon. With the money, we were able to move to Canada, where my sister had long invited us. I had nothing keeping me at home anymore. My only hope had been that Peter would call for us. He never did… But I am happy he still thought of me as his true wife. That means his feelings never died entirely. By the way, Matthew is doing much better here—he really likes it. Goodbye.” No return address…

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After Talking with the Adopted Girl, I Realised Not Everything Was as It Seemed Next to me, on a park bench, sat a five-year-old girl swinging her legs as she told me about her life: “I’ve never seen my dad; he left me and Mum when I was very little. Mum died a year ago. The adults told me she’d passed away.” The girl looked at me and continued: “After the funeral, my Auntie Helen, who was Mum’s sister, came to live with us. I was told she’d done a noble thing by not sending me to a children’s home. They explained that Auntie Helen was now my guardian and that I’d be living with her.” The girl paused, looked under the bench, and carried on: “After I moved in, Auntie Helen started tidying up our house: she put all Mum’s things in one corner and wanted to throw them away. I started crying and begged her not to, so she let me keep them. Now I sleep in that corner. Every night I curl up on Mum’s things and it’s warm there, as if she’s still with me.” “Each morning, Auntie Helen gives me something to eat. She’s not much of a cook—Mum cooked better—but she asks me to eat everything. I don’t want to upset her, so I do. I understand she’s making an effort. It’s not her fault she can’t cook like Mum did. Then she sends me out for a walk, and I can’t come back home until it’s getting dark. Auntie Helen is ever so nice!” “She loves to brag about me to the other aunties she knows. I don’t really know these ladies, but they always come round to visit us. Auntie Helen sits and has tea with them, tells funny stories, says lovely things about me, and spoils us all with sweets.” After saying this, the girl sighed and continued: “I can’t eat just sweets all the time. Auntie never scolds me for anything. She’s always nice to me. Once she even gave me a doll—of course, the doll’s a bit poorly, it’s got a bad leg and one eye that won’t open properly. Mum never gave me a doll that was already broken.” The girl hopped off the bench and began to skip on one leg: “I have to go now because Auntie said the other aunties are coming today, and I need to dress up before they arrive. She promised me a lovely slice of cake afterwards. Goodbye!” The girl jumped off the bench and dashed away to run her errands. I sat there for ages, my thoughts circling around “good” Auntie Helen. I wondered, what was the purpose of that goodness? Why did she need everyone to think she was so noble? Is it possible to look so indifferently at a child who sleeps on the floor, wrapped in her late mother’s clothes…

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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The orphanage has missed you for years! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a voice on the verge of breaking. The target of my utter fury was my cousin, Danny. Dear God, how I adored him as a child—wheat-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, a cheerful spirit. That was Danny all over. The whole family often gathered for festive meals. Of all my cousins, I singled out Danny. He could twist words as deftly as a lacemaker, and he drew with real talent. On a good night, he’d dash off five or six lovely sketches in pencil. I’d stare, entranced, and quietly stash away his drawings in my writing desk, cherishing his art. Danny was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mum—my father’s little sister—died suddenly. She just didn’t wake up one morning. The question arose: what to do with Danny? We tried his dad, but it wasn’t simple. His parents had long divorced, and his dad had a new family and refused to upset their happy course. Everyone else just shrugged and muttered about having their own lives. Family in the daylight, but after sunset, nowhere to be found. So, with two children of their own, my parents became Danny’s legal guardians. At first, I was thrilled he’d live with us. However… On his very first day in our house, Danny’s behaviour unsettled me. Mum, wanting to comfort the orphan, asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Danny? Don’t be shy.” Instantly, he replied, “A toy train set.” For the eighties, it was wildly expensive. I was shocked—your mum just died, your world collapsed, yet all you want is a train set? But my parents bought it at once. Then came, “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” Expensive, hard-to-get things. My parents stretched to grant his wishes, denying themselves and us; my brother and I kept quiet and tried to understand. At sixteen, Danny discovered girls. Turned out, my dear cousin was rather a Don Juan—and then he started hitting on me, his own cousin! Fortunately, I was tough and could fend him off, but we fought—physically and emotionally. I cried for hours. I never told my parents; kids rarely voice such personal pain. When I rejected him, Danny swiftly moved on to my friends, who actively competed for his favour. And then Danny started stealing. Blatantly. I’d been saving pocket money to buy presents for my parents—one day my piggybank was simply empty! Danny denied everything, stone-faced, not a blush of guilt. My soul was torn in two—how could he, living under our roof, steal from us? Danny, like a wrecking ball, shattered our family’s harmony. I stewed, resentful, as he genuinely saw nothing wrong—he believed the world owed him. And eventually I yelled at him, for all I was worth: “Get out of our family!” I lashed out at him like a storm, saying more than I could possibly recall. Mum barely managed to calm me. Since then, Danny no longer existed for me—I ignored him completely. Later I learned, other relatives knew just what kind of person Danny was—they all lived close by and had seen it all; our family lived farther away and hadn’t known. Even Danny’s teachers warned my parents: “He’ll be nothing but trouble—even damage your own children.” In his new school, a girl named Kate fell head over heels for him. She married Danny right after school, had a daughter, and patiently endured his antics, lies, endless affairs. The saying “double the trouble when you marry off” fit her perfectly. She gave him unwavering love that, somehow, Danny never deserved. Danny was later called up for National Service, stationed in Yorkshire. There, he set up “another” family. Somehow, during his leaves, he got involved, and after demob, had a son up north. Kate, undaunted, tracked him down and brought him back home to London by hook or by crook. My parents never heard a single thank you from Danny. Not that they expected it. Today Daniel Evans is 60, devoted churchgoer, five lovely grandchildren with Kate. All seems well, yet the bitterness from our relationship with him lingers… And I still can’t bring myself to share honey with him.

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📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

Our Relatives Came to Visit and Brought Us Gifts — Then Soon Demanded We Serve Them at the Table