Youre a burden, not a wife, my motherinlaw snapped in front of the whole family while I was refilling
The Right Not to Hurry The text from the GP arrives as Alice sits at her desk in a bustling London office
DIFFERENT PEOPLE My wife, Emily, wasnt like anyone else I knew. Exceptionally beautiful, yesan English
Sam didnt even hear the snap of the dry twig beneath his foot. Suddenly, the entire world turned upside
Go ahead and badmouth your mother all you like, but if you utter even a single word about my mum that
Update Available The first time the phone began to glow crimson, I was smack in the middle of a lecture.
Wear it carefully, love its not just gold, you know, theres a piece of our familys story in it.
Emma stared at the phone screen. A text from Mark was blunt: Divorce filed. Take the kids and out by Friday.
My Husbands Mistress Mary sat in her car, staring at the navigation screen. She had checked it twiceyes
“We’ll Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Freeloading In-Laws and Changed the Locks
The intercom didn’t simply ring—it wailed for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The one day I’d planned to catch up on sleep after closing the quarter’s accounts, not entertain guests. On the screen: my husband’s sister, looking ready to storm the Bastille, three wild-haired kids huddled behind her.
“Igor!” I barked without picking up. “Your family. Deal with it.”
He shuffled out in inside-out shorts, knowing from my tone that my patience with his clan had reached bedrock. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood in the hall, arms crossed. My flat, my rules. This three-bed in central London was bought with blood, sweat, and a soul-sucking mortgage, years before I even met Igor—having strangers under my roof was the last thing I wanted.
The door burst open, and in waltzed the caravan. Svetlana—sorry, let’s make her Susan—laden with bags, didn’t bother to say hello. She nudged past me like I was a sideboard.
“Thank God, we made it!” she panted, dumping her bags onto my Italian tile. “Come on, put the kettle on, the kids are starving.”
“Susan,” I said, voice calm; Igor’s shoulders hunched. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“What, Igor didn’t say?” She blinked all innocence. “We’ve got building works! Replacing pipes, tearing up floors, dust everywhere. Impossible to live there. We’ll just stay here a week. You’ve loads of space, don’t you?”
I looked at my husband. He stared at the ceiling, bracing for execution.
“A week,” I said coolly. “And I mean seven days. You sort your own food. The kids don’t run riot or touch my office. Silence after ten.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “Bit strict, aren’t you, Anna? Warder or what? Fine, deal. Where do we sleep? Hopefully not on the floor?”
Hell began.
A “week” stretched to two. Then three. My pristine, designer apartment turned into a pigsty: muddy shoes piled in the hall, chaos in the kitchen—greasy stains on the counters, crumbs, sticky puddles. Susan ruled the place like she owned it.
“Anna, your fridge is empty!” she declared one evening, eyeing the shelves. “The kids need yoghurts, and how about beef for me and Igor? You earn well, you could treat your in-laws.”
“You have a card and shops. Knock yourself out. Deliveries are 24/7,” I replied, unmoved.
“Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge.
But the final straw came when I got home early and caught the kids in my bedroom: oldest bouncing on my expensive mattress, youngest drawing on the wall. With. My. Limited-edition. Lipstick.
“Out!” I roared—kids scattered. Susan barely flinched at the redecorated wall and ruined lipstick. “They’re kids! It’ll wash off. Lipstick’s just coloured fat. You’ll buy another one. Oh, by the way—our builders are dragging it out, so we’ll stay until summer! You two must be bored here alone, anyway!”
Igor hovered, silent. Useless.
I fled to the bathroom before I committed a crime.
That night, Susan left her phone on the kitchen table. A notification flashed up: “Susan, next month’s rent received. Tenants love the place—can they extend until August?” Then, “£800 received.”
Click.
There was no building work. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her circus into mine, getting free food, bills, and a passive income. Genius. On my dime.
I snapped a photo of the message. For once, my hands were steady.
“Igor, kitchen. Now.” I showed him the photo. He went white.
“Maybe it’s a mistake?”
“Mistake is that you haven’t kicked them out yet,” I said coldly. “Your move: have them gone by noon tomorrow, or you can all go. You, your mother, Susan, the lot.”
“But where will they go?”
“Don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can swing it.”
The next morning Susan blithely announced she was “popping out for some lovely boots” (presumably with her rental money), leaving the kids with Igor.
“Take the kids to the park. For a long time,” I told him. He questioned, I insisted. “I’m getting rid of some parasites.”
Once they’d gone, I called a locksmith. And then the local bobby.
Game over—clear-out begins.
When Igor returned, the locks were changed and their stuff—crammed in five giant bin bags—was on the landing. By the time Susan waltzed back, loaded with shopping, I waited at the door with the constable.
She shrieked, raged, tried to get past—“We have nowhere to live! I’ve got children!”—but the officer blocked her. She threatened to call Igor. I told her to ring. No answer.
“Where’s your proof of residence?” the copper asked. “You don’t live here. Time to collect your things.”
“Oh, and say hi to Marina,” I added. “Hope your tenants extend until August—otherwise, you’ll have to turf them out.”
Susan paled.
I continued, each word like a whip crack: “Take your bags and go. So help me, if I see you or your kids anywhere near my street again, I’ll call the tax man—undeclared rental income is a crime. And I’ll report a stolen ring. The police might find it in your bags.”
The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know that.
She quivered with rage. “You’re vile, Anna. God will judge you.”
“God’s busy. And now, so am I—with my flat, finally all to myself.”
When the lift doors closed on Susan, her shopping, and her busted little scheme, I felt only relief.
Later, Igor came home, childless, guilt-ridden. “She screamed a lot,” he muttered.
“I don’t care what rats shriek as they’re thrown off a ship,” I replied, sipping fresh coffee in silence, my kitchen spotless, fridge full of food I’d actually bought.
“Did you know about the rental?” I asked.
“No! Honestly, I didn’t!”
“If you had, would you have told me?” He didn’t answer.
“One more stunt from your family, and your suitcase will be next to theirs,” I finished.
He nodded, nervously. He knew I wasn’t kidding.
I took another sip. The coffee was perfect: hot, strong, and best of all, drunk in the peace and quiet of my own, reclaimed home.
Long live the queen—crown fits just fine. Well stay here till summer!: How I sent my husbands brazen relatives packing and changed the locks.
