*”That’s my sister!”* the man gasped as his little sister set up a barbecue right in the middle of my roses. My response towered two metres high…
Picture this: we inherited a cottage from my late mother-in-law. *Cottage*—what a joke. A rickety little house, a fence held together by three planks, and a garden choked by waist-high weeds. My husband, like most men, took one look and said, *”Blimey, let’s just sell the blasted thing.”*
But me? Well, I’ve always been stubborn. I latched onto that scrap of land like a barnacle. I could already see it—lush, beautiful, *mine.* For a whole year, I lived and breathed that cottage. Poured nearly all our savings into it, and, of course, every ounce of my strength.
I painted the place myself, hired labourers to fix the roof. But the crown jewel? My flowerbeds. Not just any beds, mind you—a proper little *English garden.* Roses, peonies, hydrangeas… I nursed each bloom like it was my own child.
At first, my husband laughed. But when he saw the results? Even *he* had to admit I’d outdone myself. *”Bloody hell, Emily,”* he’d mutter, staring at the riot of colour. And honestly? I was happy. It was my sanctuary.
But peace never lasts.
Enter my sister-in-law, *Charlotte.* City-born, utterly clueless about gardening, but oh, how she loved a free countryside getaway—especially one someone *else* had slaved over.
One Saturday, without so much as a phone call, a car rolled up our drive. Out spilled Charlotte, her husband, and their two feral children. *”Emmie, darling! We’ve come for a barbecue!”* she trilled from the doorstep.
What could I do? They’re *family.* I showed them round, offered tea. But before I knew it, boots still on, they were trampling straight across my pristine veranda. And then—*chaos.*
Girls, this wasn’t a visit. It was an *invasion.* Charlotte’s husband plonked his monstrous grill right on my climbing roses. The kids stampeded through the garden, crushing peonies, snapping hydrangeas. And Charlotte? She swanned about like the Queen herself, barking orders: *”Emily, fetch us some cucumbers!”*, *”Where are your clean towels?”* They left behind a wasteland—trampled grass, broken stems, a mountain of rubbish.
I stood in the wreckage, fighting tears.
And *that* was just the beginning. They started turning up every weekend. No shame. No cleaning up. Once, I arrived to find they’d used my brand-new gardening gloves to *scrub their bloody grill.*
That evening, I tried reasoning with my husband. Explained, like he was a child, how much this place meant to me. How it *hurt* to watch it ruined. But my soft-hearted fool just sighed.
*”Emily, I get it. But come on—she’s my sister. Can’t just turn her away. We’re family. Let’s not make a scene.”*
That’s when I knew—there *would* be a scene. My *English Eden* was becoming a public barbecue pit, and my *beloved family* was wiping their feet on me.
Revenge? Oh, it came to me in an instant. Cold. Calculated.
The next week, I withdrew a hefty sum from our joint account. When my husband saw the text alert that evening, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
*”Emily, have you lost your mind?! What’s this for?”*
*”Family bonding, darling,”* I smiled—my most enigmatic smile. *”You’ll see.”*
The following Saturday, the cottage buzzed with activity—workmen swarmed the garden, swift and efficient, as if they too sensed the urgency. My husband paced nervously. Meanwhile, I lounged in a deckchair, sipping iced tea, watching.
By six o’clock, it was done. And oh, the look on his face was *priceless.*
A solid two-metre fence now split the property clean in half.
Our side? The cottage, the veranda, *my* flowerbeds. Their side? The weed-choked wasteland they’d turned into a barbecue zone—and the old shed. I’d even installed a little gate. With a *padlock.*
*”What… what is this?”* he spluttered.
*”Compromise, darling,”* I said coolly. *”This half is mine. I make the rules. That side? Charlotte’s kingdom. She can stand on her head and char sausages all she likes—it’s her territory now.”*
Right on cue, Charlotte’s car pulled up. She stepped out, saw the fence, and *froze.* Her face? Girls, it was a *masterpiece.* Shock. Outrage. Pure, unadulterated horror.
She started shrieking, ringing my husband, demanding answers. Me? I just picked up my deckchair and carried it behind the fence—to *my* side.
So tell me, honestly—was I too harsh? Or sometimes, to protect your little slice of heaven, do you just need to build a *very, very tall fence?*
