“Pack your things! You have ten minutes!”—How My Friend First Kicked Out Her Mother-in-Law, Then Her Husband
More than a decade has passed, yet I still remember this story as if it were yesterday. I’ll tell it to you just as my friend Emily told it to me, with all the drama it deserves.
Back then, Emily lived in Canterbury, worked at a bank, and saved diligently for her own home. Finally, she bought one—a small but cosy cottage in the countryside, with a garden where she dreamed of growing roses and a veranda where she imagined sipping tea in the mornings. But peace and quiet were not to be hers.
Her husband at the time, Edward, was the epitome of laziness—handsome, charming, but utterly useless. He never held a steady job, lived off her income, drank her tea, and ate her food. When Emily returned exhausted after her shifts, he’d sprawl on the sofa, complaining of being “weary of life.” But he wasn’t the worst of it.
His family was a handful. His mother, Margaret Whitmore, spoke with constant disapproval in her voice and accusation in her eyes, and his sister Lucy—a perpetual “victim” whom everyone was expected to rescue. When Emily bought the house, they decided it wasn’t hers at all but their summer retreat. They began arriving “for the season,” hauling in luggage, pots, and bedding. Lucy brought her daughter, who had no qualms about rifling through others’ purses and “taking what she needed.” Emily noticed it all, gritted her teeth, and bore it, hoping it wouldn’t last. But entitlement knows no bounds.
The next summer, Emily put her foot down. She told Edward plainly—no guests this year, she needed peace. It seemed they’d understood.
They hadn’t.
Margaret rang:
“Emily, when will you fetch me? I ought to pack—time to head to the country.”
Barely keeping her temper, Emily replied,
“The car’s in the shop, I can’t come.”
She assumed that would be the end of it. Not a chance. The next day, in sweltering heat, Margaret arrived on her own—by coach. With bags. In slippers. She stood on the doorstep like a conqueror: “I’m here.” Emily nearly lost her composure.
“How long are you staying? When do you leave? I haven’t time for tea—I’ve too much to do!” she snapped.
“Well, I shan’t be going back. I’ll stay until you fix the car.”
Emily rang me at once and told me to come immediately with her sister. When we arrived, her face was white with fury.
“I can’t take this anymore! Enough! It ends now!”
With an expression I’ll never forget, she stormed into Margaret’s room:
“Pack your things. You have ten minutes.”
Margaret didn’t grasp it at first. She clutched her chest, groaning:
“Goodness, my blood pressure! My heart!”
“Then we’ll take you to hospital,” Emily said coolly.
“No, no, I’ll rest at home—”
But she packed. We helped. On the way back, Margaret muttered under her breath, lamenting her lot and “ungrateful youth.” She never set foot in Emily’s house again.
Soon after, Emily packed a suitcase for Edward, too.
“You know,” she told me weeks later, “I kicked her out first. But the real problem had been sitting on my sofa in his joggers all along. For the first time in years, I could breathe. Now—only forward.”
And so, one firm phrase—”You have ten minutes”—changed her life. Sometimes, to make room for happiness, you must take out the rubbish. Even if that rubbish shares your last name.
