Relatives Demanded My Bedroom for the Holidays—Left Empty-Handed When I Refused “Where am I supposed to put this bowl of jellied meat?” Aunt Val muttered, wrestling the massive dish into the fridge. “There’s no space—it’s crammed with your… whatever that is… carpaccio and avocados, honestly, who eats that stuff?” she grumbled, shoving my neat containers aside. I sighed and counted to ten, stirring sauce at the stove. The relatives had barely arrived twenty minutes ago, but it already felt like a noisy caravan had overtaken our flat, intent on rearranging our lives to suit themselves. “Aunt Val, just pop it out on the balcony. It’s cold, glazed, nothing will happen to it,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “The fridge is all prepped for salads—I can’t let them freeze.” “Pff, the balcony! City dust flying everywhere! And what sort of hostess keeps food on the floor? Anyway, I’ll clear out your weird green stuff—no one’s going to eat it. Men need meat, not rabbit food,” she huffed, shifting focus to me. My husband, Paul, sliced bread at the table, trying to blend into the background; he knew Aunt Val and my cousin Lisa’s temper well. Lisa was currently critiquing our bathroom (“Only a shower? How do I bathe the boys?”) while her two young sons wiped chocolate hands on everything. I kept my composure, offering juice and warning about my precious hardwood floors, only to be told, “Don’t fuss, things are for people, not the other way round. Kids will be kids. You’ve changed, living in London,” Aunt Val scoffed. The holiday visit had been planned for months. Aunt Val and Lisa—along with the boys—invited themselves to “see the family” and “tour beautiful London.” I couldn’t say no: English hospitality and all that. But last time, their visit left me shaken for a week. Now, we finally had our own spacious, newly-renovated three-bedroom flat—a dream come true—and the pride of my life was our bedroom: deep blue walls, blackout curtains, plush carpets, and a bed with a mattress worth half an airplane. Paul and I had one rule: the bedroom was a no-go for guests. We offered the living room with a big fold-out sofa and, if necessary, Paul’s study with a comfortable daybed. When dinner wound down, Aunt Val dropped her bombshell: “My back’s shot from the journey. Can I have the bedroom tonight? I need a real mattress—my sciatica!” I explained gently but firmly: “The sofa is orthopedic, designed for guests, really comfortable.” But Aunt Val wouldn’t budge. “A sofa is a sofa. I’m not a young thing. I thought you’d give us your bedroom for the holidays. Family should have the best!” Lisa chimed in, “You’re healthy. What’s a couple nights on the sofa to you? It’s simply not right to make Mum sleep anywhere but the best bed, and with the boys in the room it would be easier for all of us.” I was stunned. “You want us to give up our bedroom and sleep in the lounge?” “You’re being dramatic,” Aunt Val snapped. “It’s only for a few nights! Guests deserve the best, that’s tradition. My mum taught me that, and hers before her. You must’ve forgotten your roots.” I held my ground: “Hospitality means good food and comfort, but our bed is personal. No one sleeps there but us. If you don’t like the sofa or daybed, I can help you find a nice hotel nearby.” Lisa was aghast: “You’d send family to a hotel? After we came all this way—with gifts? Do we mean nothing to you?” Aunt Val went further: “Your mother would be ashamed! You’re just like your father, selfish.” That was enough. “My mum was a saint, and she endured your demands for years. I am not her. I have boundaries. The bedroom is our space. End of discussion.” Lisa clanged her glass down. “Either you give us the bedroom, or we’re leaving tonight and telling everyone what sort of selfish Londoner you’ve become. Your choice.” Paul, silent until now, finally spoke, “We’re offering a warm home and comfortable places to sleep. Demanding our bed is unreasonable. If that’s what’s important to you, maybe it’s best you go.” Aunt Val leapt up, suddenly cured of all ailments. “That’s it! Lisa, pack the kids. We’re out! Better sleep at the train station than here!” Lisa looked panicked, clearly bluffing, but Aunt Val swept on: “We’ll go to Cynthia’s on the other side of town! At least she’s got heart, not just fancy food!” They stormed around collecting their gifts to take back (“You don’t deserve these towels!”), their home-pickled mushrooms, and children’s chocolates. Paul observed in silence—embarrassed by adults acting like spoiled kids. Within fifteen minutes they were gone, slamming the door so hard the plaster fell from the ceiling. The flat was blissfully silent; just the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock. I buried my face in my hands—then suddenly started laughing. Relief. Paul grinned, “They even left the jellied meat on the balcony!” We both burst out: the treasured bowl was still ours. I imagined Cynthia preparing for the unexpected guests in her tiny council flat. Not our problem. We poured ourselves champagne and, for the first time that day, genuinely celebrated. “For us,” Paul toasted, “For our home. May it always welcome those who respect us.” “And for our boundaries,” I replied, clinking glasses. That night, lying in our beloved bedroom—on that “disputed” mattress—I felt pure bliss. I realised: you can’t please everyone, especially at your own expense. If the price of peace is offending pushy relatives, it’s more than worth it. The next morning, my phone buzzed with gossip—distorted tales of cruelty and abandonment. I ignored them, instead stretching out in my bed and smiling into a brand new day. For the record, we gave the jellied meat to the neighbourhood dogs. They were grateful and offered no critique. Unlike certain people, animals know how to appreciate kindness.

What am I meant to do with this trifle bowl? The fridges packed all sorts of your trendy stuff everywhere carpaccio and avocado, honestly, who eats that? grumbled Auntie Margaret, wrestling to wedge her enormous glass bowl onto the lowest shelf, shoving aside neat stacks of salad boxes.

Olivia, standing by the simmering stove, took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten inside her head. The relatives had only walked through the front door twenty minutes ago, but it already felt as though a rowdy travelling circus had moved in, determined to upend the household.

Aunt Margaret, would you mind putting it out on the balcony? Its glazed, and chilly itll be perfectly safe for pudding, Olivia replied, forcing her voice to sound light. The fridges full of salad preps, and I cant let them freeze.

The balcony! Aunt Margaret snorted, a hefty woman with a perm and a billowing floral robe, which shed put on the minute she arrived. The city airs thick with dust! Who keeps food on the floor? Fine, Ill move your green bits aside nobodys going to eat all that. Men want meat, not rabbit food.

Olivia shot an imploring look at her husband. Peter, tall and soft-spoken, sat quietly slicing bread at the kitchen table, trying to disappear. He knew from experience how Aunt Margaret and her daughter Olivias cousin, Diane could dominate a room. Diane was now surveying the bathroom, loudly critiquing the tiling.

Peter, would you help Aunt Margaret take the trifle out to the balcony? Olivia said firmly. Ive cleared a cupboard out there and dusted as well. No city grime.

Peter dutifully rose, lifted the heavy bowl from the grumpy aunt, and vanished down the corridor. Aunt Margaret, freed of her burden, immediately turned her sights on Olivia.

You look pale, Livvy! Are you back on those crazy diets? Skin and bones. Dianes like a proper English rose, its lovely to see. But you, youre practically wasting away. And your decorating sterile, is it? All grey and white might as well be a hospital. Why not wallpaper with gold? Some taste of luxury!

We prefer a minimalist style, Aunt Margaret. But each their own, replied Olivia, testing the sauce.

Just then, Diane breezed in. She was three years older, yet acted as if the gap were fifteen, forever instructing Olivia on real life. Behind her, her boys aged five and six trailed in, hands sticky with chocolate.

Livvy, is that just a shower in your bathroom? Diane asked, dropping into a chair and crossing her legs. I was hoping for a real bath. How am I supposed to wash the boys tonight? They like a proper splash!

We did the place up for us, Diane. The boys will cope with a shower theyre not babies, Olivia replied, sensing her patience slipping.

The visit had been planned for ages, but Olivia had desperately hoped her relatives from Brighton would change their minds. Aunt Margaret and Diane felt they deserved to celebrate Christmas in London Time for a proper family catch-up, Well see the city in all its lights. Olivia, raised with the old rules of hospitality, couldnt refuse though she well remembered the last time they’d visited, when shed spent a week cleaning and recovering.

But that had been in their cramped flat. Now, Olivia and Peter had just moved into a spacious three-bedroom home, freshly renovated at great expense. It was their sanctuary, every corner chosen with care and effort, every design decision made after wrangling with builders.

Most precious to Olivia was the bedroom, her forbidden zone. Midnight blue walls, blackout curtains, a vast memory foam bed that had cost more than some cars, and thick carpet that cradled her feet. Theyd agreed from the start: no guests in the bedroom, door always shut. Guests were welcome to the living rooms fold-out sofa, or Peters study with its comfortable day bed.

Mum, Im thirsty! whined Dianes younger son, tugging her sleeve.

Go ask Auntie Livvy for juice, darling, said Diane, waving him off. Livvy, could you sort them out? Theyre worn out from the train.

Olivia poured two glasses of apple juice.

Careful dont spill on the floor, its real oak parquet, she cautioned.

Oh, dont fret about your precious parquet, Aunt Margaret scoffed. Furnitures for people, not the other way round. Kids will spill, youll mop it up. Youre awfully jumpy these days, Livvy all this London has gone to your head.

Peter reappeared, sensing the tension, and suggested, Shall we move to the table? Its gone five, nearly time to ring in Old Year’s Night.

The family meal began in chaos. The boys raced around, snatching cheese and sausage, Diane chatted loudly on the phone, describing their journey, while Aunt Margaret criticised every dish.

Shrimp salad? I cant see the point. Now, a potato salad thats real food. This its all odd flavours and weeds. Livvy, couldnt you have boiled some proper spuds and sprinkled dill? This mash with truffle oil it smells strange.

Thats gourmet, Mum, Diane drawled, dropping her phone. But I do like simple food. Pass the mushrooms, Livvy. Did you pickle those yourself?

Shop-bought, from a local farm, Olivia replied.

Figures. Too much bother to do it yourself, Aunt Margaret declared. Never mind, I brought proper ones Ill open them. Youll see what mushrooms should taste like.

Olivia chewed in silence, head bent over her plate. Peter squeezed her hand under the table, giving her a look that said: Just three days, keep going.

By eight, after the first bottle of prosecco was finished, the boys had finally quietened and buried their noses in tablets. The conversation turned to sleeping arrangements.

I’m knackered from the trip, my back is in bits, Aunt Margaret sighed, massaging her waist. Id love to stretch out and rest.

Yes, Mum, you need a proper nights sleep, echoed Diane. Livvy, where will we be sleeping?

Olivia sat up straight, prepared for this.

The living room sofa pulls out; its very wide, perfect for two adults. Diane, the study has a day bed that folds out. If its a tight fit, weve got an inflatable mattress, very comfy.

A hush fell. Aunt Margaret stopped chewing, Diane raised her brows in disbelief.

What do you mean, the sofa? Aunt Margaret stared at Olivia. I have sciatica, you know! I cant sleep on a fold-out Id be crippled by morning. I need a proper mattress, supportive and soft.

Aunt Margaret, its an orthopaedic sofa bed, especially bought for guests firm, no lumps Olivia began.

A sofas still a sofa! Thats for young people. Im older, Ive got aches. I thought youd let us have the bedroom. Ive heard youve got some kind of miracle mattress.

Olivia was stunned. Shed expected grumbles, but not such flagrant demands for her private space.

The bedroom? Peters voice hardened. Margaret, thats our room. We sleep there.

So what? Youre young, fit. Spend a couple of nights on the sofa or the floor, you wont fall apart. Mum needs comfort. And Id prefer the boys to be with us in the bedroom they wake up at night, and you can shut them in, keeps the noise down.

Wait a second Olivia felt her cheeks burn. Youre saying we should leave our own bedroom and let you and the boys have our bed?

Oh, dont be so dramatic, Livvy! Aunt Margaret feigned offence. Leave, give up were family, its just for Christmas. You always put guests first. My mum taught me that, her mum before. Youve forgotten real values, living here in London.

Aunt Margaret, hospitality means food and warmth, Olivia said steely. But a beds like a toothbrush some things are personal. We sleep there. Im sorry, but the answers no.

Diane plonked down her glass, the stem ringing on the wood.

Livvy, is this for real? You wont let your own aunt and cousins have the bed? We travelled two hundred miles, brought you gifts, and you want us on a sofa like stray dogs?

Hardly stray dogs! Peter cut in. That sofa cost nearly two thousand pounds its nicer than most beds. I sneak a nap on it myself sometimes.

I dont want your prices! Aunt Margaret snapped. Its not about money, its about respect! Your mother would be appalled shed never treat family like this. Selfish, just like your father!

That stung. Olivias mum, ever patient and generous, had spent her life accommodating Margarets demands, giving away her last penny and babysitting for hours. Olivia remembered how Margaret would drop in, take the lions share of everything, criticise endlessly, and leave behind exhaustion and empty cupboards.

Dont talk about Mum, Olivias voice was low, icy. She was a saint, and you took advantage. Im not my mother. My boundaries are clear. The bedrooms off limits. If youre not happy with the sofa, I can book you a hotel.

A hotel?! Diane choked. Youre sending us out? In winter? Mum, do you hear that?

I hear, love, I hear, Aunt Margaret clutched her chest dramatically. Oh, I feel faint My blood pressure! Water, now!

Diane lunged for the jug, handed over tablets and a glass. The boys, sensing trouble, grew quiet, wide-eyed as they watched the grown-ups argue.

Right then, Diane commanded after Aunt Margaret recovered. Heres your choice, Livvy. Either we get the bedroom and a proper bed, or we leave tonight. Feel free to tell the rest of the family what kind of London snob youve become. Your call.

Olivia glanced at Peter, who looked resolute and exhausted. He had had enough of the pushiness, the disrespect, the attempt to turn their home into a boarding house.

Thats an odd ultimatum, Diane. Olivia rose from the table. Im offering you hospitality, good food, and a comfortable place to sleep. Youre demanding my private bed and threatening to storm out. If thats whats important to you not family, not togetherness perhaps it’s best you go.

Oh, is that how it is? Aunt Margaret leapt up forgetting her aches. Pack up, Diane! Grab the children. Were not staying a minute longer! Well sleep at the train station before we stay with you!

Mum! Its late, trains arent running! Diane was dismayed, clearly surprised that her bluff hadn’t worked, hoping Olivia would cave to drama.

Well take a cab! Well go to Elsies, other side of town! She’s got a box room, but shes a real friend, not stingy with her last slice of bread! You two can choke on your fancy mushrooms!

Chaos erupted. Diane, glaring daggers at her cousin, started stuffing suitcases. Aunt Margaret paced the flat, moaning loudly about the injustice.

Give us our gifts back! she demanded at the door. I brought you that set of linen towels! Youre not worthy. Elsiell get them instead.

Olivia quietly fetched the towels (hard and scratchy, shed never wanted them) and handed them over. Here. Dont forget your jar of mushrooms.

And well have those chocolates we brought for the boys! Diane snapped, grabbing the sweets.

Peter watched all this, feeling embarrassed for the adults behaving like sulky children.

Packing up took fifteen minutes, during which Aunt Margaret didnt stop complaining, dredging up grievances decades old and predicting lonely old age for Olivia and Peter.

Did you call a cab? Peter asked as the guests put on their shoes.

No need for your charity! Well ring one ourselves! spat Diane, jabbing her phone. Come on, Mum cabll be here in five.

They stomped out onto the landing, Aunt Margaret slamming the new front door so hard plaster cracked from the ceiling.

A ringing silence filled the flat. Only the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the lounge clock remained. Abandoned on the table were the half-eaten shrimp salad, scattered napkins, and a sticky patch of spilt juice.

Olivia sank down onto a chair, head in hands, shoulders shaking.

Peter came over, wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

Its over, Livvy. You did it.

Olivia looked up, tears replaced by jittery laughter.

Did you hear her? Better the train station than here! Oh God, Peter what relief!

Amazing, isnt it? Peter smiled. And guess what they left the trifle on the balcony! Its still there!

Olivia giggled.

That trifle! Their prized possession! And Elsies in a tiny box room with her husband who drinks imagine how thrilled she’ll be when the caravan arrives.

Not our concern anymore, Peter philosophised, pouring more prosecco. I felt awkward at first, but when she mentioned your mother I wanted to throw them out myself. You were marvellous. Brave.

I just really love our bedroom, Olivia confessed, sipping his wine. And you. And our peace. I think this will be the best New Year ever. Just us, mountains of food, and not a single complaint about salad.

They began tidying Olivia clearing crockery, Peter loading the dishwasher. The air seemed fresher, as if resentment and envy had been swept out with the guests.

Olivia went to the window. Large, fluffy snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the city below in white. Somewhere, her relatives were squeezing into Elsies little room or shivering at the station, dragging their bitterness with them. Olivia even felt a faint pang of pity. Carrying a grudge seemed much harder than sleeping on a sofa.

Peter, she called. Lets put the music on. Light some candles its still our celebration.

Absolutely, Peter answered from the kitchen. And the ducks just about ready. The one they snubbed.

An hour later, they sat at the re-set table. Candles glowed; soft jazz played. The apple-stuffed duck was delectable perfectly roasted and juicy.

Heres to us, toasted Peter. To our home. And to always having space only for those who truly respect us.

And to boundaries, Olivia replied, clinking her glass. Which we finally learned to defend.

Much later, drifting off in her cherished room, Olivia felt utter happiness. The silence gentle, linens smelling of lavender, the mattress cradling her perfectly. She pictured her relatives huddled in Elsies cramped room, or sitting in a draughty station, muttering about uppity Olivia. The thought didnt fill her with guilt.

She understood: you cant please everyone, especially not at your own expense. If peace costs the outrage of pushy family, so be it its worth it.

The next morning her phone buzzed non-stop. Messages from other relatives their version already twisted, claiming Olivia had tossed a poor, sick aunt into the frost, barefoot. Olivia ignored it all, set her phone to airplane mode, stretched under her duvet, and smiled at the new day.

Later, they fed the forgotten trifle to the neighbourhood dogs. The dogs were grateful not a single complaint about the cream or the layers. Unlike certain people, animals know how to appreciate kindness.