It was July, as usual, and I had taken the children to my parents’ cottage for the summer. My husband, unlucky with his leave from work, stayed behind to mind the house, as they say. Everything was peaceful and ordinary—until I returned home and found an unexpected “guest” waiting. Instead of quiet, there was girlish laughter; instead of homely comfort, drying laundry, cosmetics, and unfamiliar slippers in the hallway. In the kitchen sat my husband’s sixteen-year-old niece, Victoria. She made herself right at home. My husband, caught red-handed, raised his hands in surrender.
“Sorry, love… I didn’t mean to trouble you,” he said. “Let me explain.”
I already had a fair idea where this was coming from. Victoria, his sister Eleanor’s daughter, had stayed with us before. Whenever Eleanor had a new “romantic encounter” or some “urgent business trip,” the girl would end up on our doorstep. We never minded—a divorced woman, young and free, had every right to a life of her own. But it was always just a night or two. This time… Victoria had arrived the very day we left for the cottage and showed no signs of returning to her mother.
Picture it: a two-bedroom flat in a quiet part of Bristol, five of us crammed inside—my husband and I, two restless boys, and a sixteen-year-old girl, neither child nor adult. The children’s room was twelve square metres, our bedroom barely larger. A night or two was manageable, but living like this? Torture.
In the bathroom hung Victoria’s drying laundry—lace and delicate straps on full display. My boys were at that age where they’d begun noticing feminine charms, and I certainly didn’t want their first stirrings linked to their cousin’s underthings. I mentioned it politely. Victoria, to her credit, removed everything at once and even apologised. Truthfully, she wasn’t a bad girl—helpful, polite, kind. But that only held so long as she was temporary. Here… the length of her stay was anyone’s guess.
I pulled my husband aside.
“James, will she be gone by the start of term? Or are we starting the school year with a lodger?”
He shrugged.
“No idea… Eleanor won’t say a word.”
And there it was. Her mother had handed her off entirely so she could chase love. Where Victoria slept, what she ate, how she spent her evenings—none of it mattered. And us? We had to bend over backwards not to make her feel unwanted.
I decided not to lose my temper just yet. I’d call Eleanor in the morning and talk it through calmly. But the moment she heard the topic, the line went dead—and after that, I couldn’t reach her at all. The call dropped straight away, short rings, her number likely blocked. Go to her? She lived clear across town, and I’d wager the door wouldn’t open. The message was plain enough.
So I took a breath and told my husband, “Darling, sort this out with your sister. She won’t listen to me.”
He just lowered his head. “Nor me, it seems… But what do we do with Victoria? We can’t turn her out.”
No, of course not. She’d grown up without a father, and maternal care had been scarce. We’d helped all her life—birthday gifts, holiday dresses, phones at Christmas. We’d always been there. But we weren’t her parents. We were family. Sheltering her briefly was one thing; living together for months? No. That was another matter entirely.
And Eleanor? She was too busy savouring her new romance. Dining out, cinema dates, weekends at his place, perhaps. She was happy. Victoria was with us—problem solved.
So now what? Drag Victoria back and abandon her at her mother’s door? Cruel. But to go on like this? Unbearable. My husband and I were hardly teenagers to share our bedroom with a third. The boys were frayed as it was—their routine upended. And Victoria? She had her own moods, her music, her calls, three showers a day, endless updates…
I don’t know what to do. Victoria isn’t to blame. But I never signed up to be her mother. For now, I wait—hoping hers finds the decency to remember she has a daughter. Before it’s too late.
