So, back in July, like every summer, I took the kids to my parents’ place in the countryside. My husband couldn’t get time off work—stuck at home, holding down the fort, as they say. Everything was normal and peaceful… until I came back and found an unexpected “guest” in our house. Instead of quiet, there was girly laughter; instead of our usual cozy vibe, there were laundry drying, makeup everywhere, and someone else’s slippers in the hallway. And there, in the kitchen, was my husband’s niece, sixteen-year-old Emily. Sitting there like she owned the place. My husband, caught red-handed, immediately put his hands up: “Sorry, love… I didn’t want to bother you. I’ll explain.”
I already had a feeling where this was going. Emily, his sister Claire’s daughter, had stayed with us before—usually when Claire had some new “romantic fling” or a “last-minute work trip.” We never minded—she’s a single mum, young, deserves a life. But it was always just a night or two. This time? Emily moved in the second we left for the countryside and, by the looks of it, had no plans to go back.
Picture this: a two-bedroom flat in a quiet suburb of Manchester, five of us—me, my husband, two hyperactive boys, and a teenage girl who’s not quite a kid but not quite an adult. The kids’ room is tiny, our bedroom barely fits us. A night or two? Fine. But living like this? Absolute chaos.
Emily’s laundry was everywhere—lace, strappy things, all on display. My boys are at that age where they’ve started noticing, well, *everything*, and I really don’t want their first crush to involve their cousin’s underwear. I said something, politely. Emily apologised and cleared it away. To her credit, she’s a sweet girl—helpful, polite, no trouble. But that’s easy when it’s temporary. Now? No end in sight.
I pulled my husband aside: “Tom, is she leaving before school starts? Or are we kicking off the new term with a lodger?” He just shrugged. “Dunno… Claire’s gone quiet.”
There’s my answer. Her mum’s dumped her on us so she can chase some new love interest. What Emily eats, where she gets money, what she does at night? Not Claire’s problem. And us? We’re bending over backwards not to make her feel unwelcome—but she *is* unwelcome, in a home this size.
I tried calling Claire the next morning. The second she realised why I was calling? Call dropped. Straight to voicemail. Probably blocked me. Go to her place? She lives clear across town, and I know she won’t answer the door. Message received.
So I took a deep breath and told Tom: “Sort it with your sister. She won’t listen to me.” He just sighed. “Doubt she’ll listen to me either… But where does Emily go? We can’t just kick her out.”
No, of course not. Emily grew up without a dad, and her mum’s never been the nurturing type. We’ve always stepped in—birthday gifts, Christmas presents, phones when she needed them. We’ve been there. But we’re not her parents. We’re family. A weekend here and there? Fine. Months? No. That’s a whole different story.
Meanwhile, Claire? Living her best life—dinners out, cinema dates, probably weekends at some bloke’s place. Emily’s with us, so *her* problem’s solved.
What now? Drag Emily back and leave her on the doorstep? Harsh. But living like this isn’t sustainable. We’re not teenagers—we need our own space. The boys are already unsettled. And Emily? She’s a teen—music blasting, endless phone calls, three showers a day, non-stop Instagram stories…
I don’t know what to do. Emily’s not at fault. But I never signed up to be her mum. Right now, I’m just waiting for Claire to grow a conscience and remember she has a daughter. Hopefully before it’s too late.
