I really don’t want to, but I’m packing my things and heading to my mum’s with my son, Daniel. And all because yesterday, while I was out with him, my husband, Steven, decided to play the gracious host and let his relatives into our room—his cousin Olivia with her husband, Patrick, and their two kids, Emily and Jacob. The most infuriating part? He didn’t even bother to ask me first! Just casually said, “You and Daniel can stay at your mum’s—there’s plenty of space there.” I’m still in shock at the nerve of it. This is our home, our room, and now I’m expected to pack up and make way for strangers? No, that’s just too much.
It all started when I got back from my walk with Daniel. He was tired, fussing, as usual, and all I wanted was to put him to bed and enjoy a quiet cup of tea. I walked into the flat, and it was chaos. Olivia and Patrick had already made themselves at home in our bedroom, where Steven, Daniel, and I sleep. Their kids, Emily and Jacob, were tearing around, scattering toys everywhere, while my things—my books, makeup, even my laptop—had been shoved into a corner as if I didn’t live here anymore. I stood there, stunned, and asked Steven, “What’s going on?” And he just shrugged, as if discussing the weather: “Olivia and the family needed a place to stay. Thought you and Daniel could pop round to your mum’s—she’s got the space.”
I could barely breathe, I was so angry. First of all, this is our home! We paid for this flat together, furnished it, picked out every piece. And now I’m supposed to leave because his relatives fancied a trip to the city? Second, why didn’t he even ask me? Maybe I’d have agreed to help, but at least we could’ve talked it through. Instead, he just dropped it on me. Olivia, for her part, didn’t even apologise. Just smiled and said, “Charlotte, don’t worry, we’ll only be here a couple of weeks!” A couple of weeks? I don’t even want strangers touching my things for a couple of days!
Patrick, Olivia’s husband, hasn’t said a word. Just sits on our sofa, sipping coffee from my favourite mug, nodding along whenever Olivia speaks. And their kids—that’s another story. Emily, about six, already spilled juice on our rug, and four-year-old Jacob decided my wardrobe was the perfect hiding spot. I tried hinting this wasn’t a hotel, but Olivia just waved me off: “Oh, they’re just kids, what can you do?” Right, and I suppose I’m the one expected to clean up after them.
I tried talking to Steven alone. Told him how hurt I was that he’d made this decision without me. Explained that Daniel needs stability, his own space, his own bed. Dragging a three-year-old to my mum’s, where he’ll sleep on a fold-out, isn’t fair. But Steven just shrugged again: “Charlotte, don’t make a big deal of it. They’re family—we’ve got to help.” Family? So Daniel and I aren’t family? I was so furious I nearly cried. Instead, I started packing. If he thinks I’ll just put up with this, he’s wrong.
My mum, Margaret, was livid when she heard what happened. “Since when does Steven decide who lives in your home?” she fumed over the phone. “Come over, love, I’ll take care of you and Daniel, and you’ll sort this out with him later.” Mum’s got a temper, and she’s ready to storm over and kick these guests out herself. But I don’t want a scene. I just want my son to be comfortable while I figure out what to do next.
As I packed, I couldn’t stop turning it all over in my head. How could Steven so easily push me and Daniel out of our own lives? I’ve always tried to be a good wife—cooking, cleaning, supporting him. And he didn’t even consider how I’d feel, coming home to strangers in our bedroom. The worst part? He didn’t even apologise. Just said, “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” Well, sorry, Steven, but this isn’t a molehill—it’s a whole mountain camped out on my bed.
Now, heading to Mum’s, I’ll admit, I feel a bit lighter. Margaret’s place is always cosy, smells of baking, and Daniel loves playing in her garden. But I’m not letting this slide. I’ve already decided: when I go back, Steven and I are having a serious talk. If he wants us to be a family, he needs to respect me and our son. Olivia and Patrick can find a rental or a hotel. I don’t mind helping, but not at the cost of my comfort—and not without my say.
As I zip up Daniel’s toys, he looks up at me with those big eyes and asks, “Mum, are we staying at Gran’s long?” I hug him and say, “Not long, sweetheart. Just for a bit, then we’ll go home.” But deep down, I know: I’ll only go back when I’m sure it’s our home again—not a free B&B for his relatives. And Steven had better decide what matters more: his “hospitality” or our family.
