“Pack your bags! You’ve got ten minutes!” – how my friend first kicked out her mother-in-law, then her husband
It’s been over ten years, and I still remember this story like it was yesterday. I’ll tell you exactly how my friend Emily told me, with all the drama it deserves.
Back then, Emily lived in Bath, worked at a bank, and had been saving up for her own place. Finally, she bought one—a small but cozy cottage just outside the city, with a garden where she dreamed of growing roses and a porch for her morning coffee. But peace and quiet? Not a chance.
Her husband at the time, Oliver, was your typical layabout—handsome, charming, but completely useless. He never held down a steady job, lived off her money, drank her coffee, and when Emily came home exhausted after a long shift, he’d just lie awake, complaining about how “hard life was.” As if that wasn’t bad enough…
His family was *something else*. His mum, Margaret, always had that judging tone and a look of disapproval, and his sister Stacey—forever the victim, always needing someone else to rescue her. The moment Emily bought the house, they decided it wasn’t *her* house—it was *their* holiday home. They started showing up every summer, unloading their stuff, pots, bedding. Stacey even brought her daughter, who had no shame going through Emily’s purse and “taking what she needed.” Emily noticed. She bit her tongue, hoping it wouldn’t last. But entitlement has no limits.
By the next summer, Emily had had enough. She made it clear to Oliver—no visitors this year. She needed peace. And for a moment, she thought they got the message.
Spoiler: *They didn’t.*
Then came the call from Margaret:
“Emily, when are you picking me up? I need to pack—time to head to the cottage.”
Emily, barely holding it together, replied:
“The car’s in the garage—I can’t get you.”
Thought that would be the end of it? *Nope.* The next day, in scorching thirty-degree heat, Margaret turned up *anyway.* Took the bus. Brought *bags.* In *slippers.* Stood on the doorstep like she’d just won a prize: “*I’m here.*” Emily nearly lost it.
“So… how long are you staying? When are you leaving? Can’t do tea—got too much on!” she snapped.
“Oh, I’m not going back. I’ll stay till the car’s fixed.”
Emily rang me, told me to come over *now* with her sister. When we got there, she was *white* with anger.
“I’ve had *enough.* This ends *today.*”
And with a look I’ll never forget, she stormed into Margaret’s room:
“Pack. Your. Bags. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Margaret didn’t even process it at first. Flopped onto the bed, clutching her chest, groaning:
“Love, my blood pressure! My heart!”
“Then let’s go to the hospital,” Emily said flatly.
“No, no, I’ll just rest here—”
*Oh, she packed.* We helped. On the way home, she muttered to herself, whining about life and “ungrateful youngsters.” But she *never* came back.
And soon after, Emily packed *Oliver’s* suitcase too.
“Y’know,” she told me weeks later, “I kicked *her* out first. But the real problem was sitting on my couch in joggers the whole time. Felt like I could *breathe* for the first time in years. Now? Only moving forward.”
One firm sentence—*”You’ve got ten minutes”*—changed *everything.* Sometimes, to make space for happiness, you’ve got to take out the trash. Even if that “trash” shares your last name.
