“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, but I still remember this story as if it were yesterday. I’ll tell it to you exactly as my friend Emily recounted it to me, with all the drama it deserves.
At the time, Emily lived in Bristol, working at a bank, saving up for her own place—and 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 longed to sip her morning coffee. But peace and quiet were not in the cards for her.
Her husband back then, James, was your typical layabout—handsome, charming, but utterly useless. He never held down a steady job, lived off her earnings, drank her coffee, and ate meals she paid for. When Emily came home exhausted after her shift, he’d be sprawled on the sofa, moaning about being “worn out by life.” But worse than him was his family.
They were a piece of work. His mother—Margaret—always had that disapproving tone, her eyes full of judgment. And his sister, Lucy—forever the “poor victim” who expected everyone to rescue her. When Emily bought the house, they decided it wasn’t *her* home—it was *their* holiday retreat. They started arriving “for the summer,” unloading suitcases, cookware, bedding. Lucy even brought her daughter, who had no qualms about rifling through Emily’s purse and “taking what she needed.” Emily noticed everything. She bit her tongue, hoping it wouldn’t last. But some people push until you push back.
The next summer, Emily had had enough. She told James firmly—no visitors this year. She needed peace. For a moment, it seemed they’d listened.
They hadn’t.
Margaret called:
“Emily, when are you picking me up? I need to pack—time to head to the cottage.”
Barely holding her temper, Emily replied, “The car’s in the shop. Can’t make it.”
She thought that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. The next day, in sweltering heat, Margaret showed up—on the bus. Laden with bags. Worn-out slippers on her feet. Standing on the doorstep like a conqueror: *”I’m here.”* Emily nearly lost it.
“Are you staying long? When do you leave? No time for tea—I’m slammed!” she snapped.
“Well, I’m not going back until your car’s fixed!”
Emily called me, demanding I come over at once with her sister. When we arrived, her face was bone-white with fury.
“I can’t take it anymore. Enough. This ends *now.*”
With a look 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 theatrically:
“Goodness, my blood pressure! My heart!”
“Then let’s get you to hospital,” Emily said coldly.
“Oh, no—I’ll rest at home—”
But she packed. We helped. On the way back, she muttered to herself, lamenting her fate, cursing “ungrateful youth.” She never set foot in Emily’s house again.
Soon after, Emily packed a suitcase—for James.
“You know,” she told me weeks later, “I got rid of *her* first. But the real problem was always lounging on my sofa in his joggers. For the first time in years, I could breathe. Now? Only moving forward.”
One firm sentence—*”You have ten minutes.”*—changed everything. Sometimes, to make room for happiness, you have to take out the rubbish. Even if that rubbish shares your last name.
