**July 15th**
This summer, as usual, I took the kids to my parents’ cottage in Devon while my husband, James, stayed behind in Birmingham—stuck at work, as they say. Everything was peaceful until I came home… and found an unexpected “guest.” Instead of quiet, there was giggling. Instead of cosiness, laundry strung up everywhere, makeup on the table, and someone else’s slippers in the hallway. In the kitchen sat my husband’s niece, sixteen-year-old Sophie, lounging as if she owned the place. James, caught red-handed, raised his hands in surrender before I could even speak.
*“Love, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to spring this on you. Let me explain.”*
I knew exactly where this was headed. Sophie, his sister Claire’s daughter, had stayed with us before—usually when Claire had some *urgent business trip* or a new *romantic fling*. We never minded. A divorced woman deserves a life, after all. But it was always just a night or two. This time? Sophie moved in the day we left for Devon and showed no signs of leaving.
Picture it: a tiny terrace house in a Birmingham suburb, five of us crammed in—me, James, two rowdy boys, and a teenage girl who’s neither child nor adult. The boys’ room is barely 10 square metres, our bedroom not much bigger. A night or two is manageable, but living like this? Torture.
Sophie’s laundry—lace bras, delicate straps—hung right in the bathroom where my sons could see. They’re at that age, noticing *everything*, and I’ll be damned if their first crush is sparked by their cousin’s underwear. I asked her politely to move it. She did, even apologised. Truth be told, Sophie’s a good kid—helpful, polite. But that’s fine when she’s temporary. Now? No end in sight.
I cornered James later: *“So, is she leaving before school starts? Or are we starting term with a lodger?”*
He just shrugged. *“Dunno… Claire’s gone quiet.”*
There’s my answer. Her mother’s dumped her on us to chase some new love. What Sophie eats, where she gets money, what she does at night? Not Claire’s concern. Meanwhile, we’re bending over backwards to avoid making the girl feel unwelcome.
I didn’t snap. Next morning, I called Claire. The moment she heard why, the line went dead. Straight to voicemail after that. Blocked, no doubt. Go to her place? She’s clear across the city, and I’d bet my last quid she wouldn’t answer the door. Message received.
So I told James: *“Sort it out with your sister. She won’t listen to me.”*
He just sighed. *“Doubt she’ll listen to me either… But we can’t just kick Sophie out.”*
No, of course not. The girl grew up without a dad, and her mum’s care was hit-or-miss. We’ve always helped—birthday gifts, Christmas jumpers, phones when she outgrew the old ones. But we’re not her parents. We’re family. A short stay is one thing. Months? That’s another story.
And Claire? She’s off wining and dining, weekends at some bloke’s place, living her best life. Sophie’s *our* problem now.
What do we do? Drag her back and leave her on Claire’s doorstep? Cruel. But this isn’t sustainable. We’re not teenagers sharing a room. The boys are unsettled—routine’s shot. Sophie’s got her own dramas—music blaring, Snapchat stories, three showers a day…
She’s not to blame. But I never signed up to be her mother. For now, I’m just waiting for Claire to grow a conscience. Hopefully before it’s too late.
**Lesson:** Family ties don’t mean unlimited responsibility. Sometimes *helping* just enables someone else’s neglect.
