**Diary Entry: The Cost of Saying No**
Life has never been simple for me. Responsibilities, endless chores, and hard work have become my routine, and somewhere along the way, I lost myself in it all. Now, people call me selfish, heartless, greedy—all because I refused to bend over backwards for others just once. I’m not here to justify myself, but to say this: behind every ‘no’ isn’t greed, but exhaustion no one bothers to see.
Our seaside cottage in Cornwall is what most would call idyllic. Spacious, cosy, with a well-tended garden and a quaint little gazebo. But few know the backbreaking labour it took for my husband and me to build it. All we inherited was a crumbling shed on a patch of land. For over a decade, we rebuilt it ourselves—brick by brick, room by room, with no help from anyone. We added an extension, installed plumbing, laid down gas lines, and even built guest lodges.
Now, it’s our livelihood. In summer, when tourists flock here, we rent out every inch—even our own bedroom. We sleep in a caravan on creaky camp beds. Guests pay not just for lodging, but for home-cooked meals. I’m up at dawn, cooking, scrubbing, changing sheets, and tending to arrivals and departures. By July, I can’t recall the last proper meal or full night’s sleep I’ve had.
Still, I don’t complain. These summer months keep us afloat the rest of the year. Nearly all our earnings go to our daughter and her husband—they’re paying off a mortgage, and we’re glad to help. We’re not young, our health isn’t what it was, but we carry on.
Then came the blow.
Our daughter recently announced they were holidaying in Spain. Joy? Sure. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and his parents—they’ll stay with you this summer. They’ve never been to the seaside. Mum, please make them welcome—and don’t charge them. They’re pensioners.” I was speechless.
*His* parents? The ones who didn’t so much as call when my husband and I were bedridden with Covid, leaving the renovations in limbo? The ones who barely stayed an hour at our daughter’s wedding before rushing off? The ones who hadn’t so much as thought of us in eight years—until a free seaside getaway was on offer?
I flipped through our bookings diary—every slot filled since January. Even our room was reserved by a young couple with an ill child. We’d planned to sleep in a tent, for heaven’s sake. And in that chaos—guests, caravans, tents, and sleepless nights—where was I meant to host two elderly guests needing comfort, quiet, and attention?
I’m not against family. But this isn’t a holiday resort—it’s how we survive. We’ve no other income. Tourism tanked after the pandemic; we’re only just recovering. Now this?
I told our daughter no. That it wouldn’t work. That I couldn’t handle it, physically or mentally. The backlash was swift. My husband was hurt—“They’re *family*.” Her husband sneered—“You’re embarrassing us.” Neighbours muttered—“Too proud to share now.” And our daughter? She just went quiet. Overnight, I became the villain—not the woman who’d spent years holding everything together, but a miserly old shrew hoarding pennies.
That night, I sat on the porch, listening to the waves, and wept. I’m tired of being kind. Tired of giving everything and being met with demands. No one asked how I was. No one offered help. No one considered I might simply be stretched too thin.
Now, I’m left wondering: stand my ground and be hated, or give in and wear myself to the bone—just so everyone’s happy.
Tell me, what would you do?
