Well, what do you think? Just two weeks before Easter, my mother-in-law Margaret’s relatives showed up at our doorstep, and by the looks of it, they’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon.
I’m Emily, and at this point, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These guests are quite the surprise package, treating our house like their own personal bed and breakfast. And instead of gently nudging them toward the door, Margaret just nods along, stuffing them full of pies and cakes. Don’t even get me started on my husband, Peter, who’s somehow convinced himself this isn’t his problem. So I figured I’d share this little saga, because honestly, I’m curious—whose patience will snap first, mine or theirs?
It all began one morning when I woke up to a racket in the kitchen. For a wild second, I thought maybe Peter had decided to surprise me with breakfast. Ha! No such luck. When I walked in, I found an entire delegation: Auntie Valerie, her husband Brian, and their daughter Chloe, all the way from some sleepy little town where, judging by their stories, life is duller than a rainy Tuesday in Manchester. They’d come “for Easter,” but apparently decided the festivities start a fortnight early. Margaret, beaming like a freshly painted Easter egg, was already busy at the stove, whipping up a full roast dinner. “Emily, love, they’re family!” she chirped. “We must be good hosts!” Meanwhile, I eyed the suitcases piled in the hallway and braced myself—this wasn’t a weekend visit.
Auntie Valerie had a voice that could rattle the china. The moment she stepped in, she launched into a grand speech about how expensive everything was back home, while declaring our place “a proper London palace.” Then she commenced her inspection. “Oh, Emily, why are your curtains so dusty?” she tutted. “And what on earth is that stain on the rug?” She rifled through cupboards like an overzealous hotel reviewer while I clenched my teeth and counted to ten. Brian, her husband, was the polar opposite—silent as a church mouse. He planted himself in front of the telly, flipping channels until he found fishing programmes. As for Chloe, their twenty-year-old, she lived on her phone but somehow managed to polish off half our groceries. Once, I caught her finishing my last pot of custard. “Oh, I thought it was for everyone!” she said. For everyone? Right—just not *you*, Chloe.
Instead of hinting that maybe it was time to ease off, Margaret poured fuel on the fire. She cooked like it was Christmas every day—roasts, Yorkshire puddings, shepherd’s pie—and the relatives ate it up. “Maggie, you’re an absolute treasure!” cooed Auntie Valerie, helping herself to thirds. I tried to suggest to Margaret that perhaps they didn’t need *quite* so much spoiling, but she gasped like I’d insulted the Queen. “Emily, how can you say that? They only visit once in a blue moon!” Once in a blue moon? From the looks of it, they’re moving in.
Peter, my beloved husband, took neutrality to Olympic levels. When I nudged, “Can’t you talk to your mum? Maybe hint they should head home?” he just shrugged. “Em, they’re guests. Be patient.” *Guests*? More like permanent fixtures! The bathroom had turned into Chloe’s personal photo studio, and yesterday, Auntie Valerie “helped” by scrubbing my favourite frying pan to death. “Thought it needed a good scouring!” she chirped. Sure—straight into the bin.
The best part? They’ve started making plans. Auntie Valerie announced she’d stay through May Day to “see how you lot do your barbecues.” Brian’s dreaming of a fishing trip with Peter, and Chloe begged us to take her to Oxford Street because “back home, the shops are rubbish.” Meanwhile, I sit here wondering—when will they *leave*? And more importantly, how do I survive till then without losing my mind?
I’ve started plotting ways to nudge them out. Fake a plumbing disaster? Claim we’re off to Cornwall? But Margaret seems thrilled by this invasion. Last night, she suggested hosting a massive Easter lunch and inviting the neighbours. “Let them see what a close family we are!” Close? I’ve never felt more like a stranger in my own home.
The only thing keeping me sane is dark humour. Late at night, once everyone’s snoring, I sip my tea and fantasise about writing a tell-all: *Surviving the Relatives: A Hostage’s Guide*. Chapters include “Hiding the Biscuits,” “Smiling Through the Pain,” and “Why You Should Never Let Auntie Valerie Near Your Pans.” But deep down, I know this won’t last forever. One day, they’ll be gone, and my house will be mine again. Until then, I’m counting down to Easter and praying Auntie Valerie doesn’t get the urge to extend her stay till summer.
Anyone else have family like this? How do you cope? Because I’m hanging by a thread, but I refuse to surrender. Maybe by Easter, I’ll achieve enlightenment. Or at least master the art of hiding the custard where Chloe can’t find it.
In the end, I suppose the lesson is this: family might drive you mad, but the chaos is temporary. And sometimes, that’s all the comfort you need.
