**Wednesday, 15th March**
I sat in the kitchen of our tiny flat in Sheffield, clutching a mug of cold tea, fighting back tears of frustration. Four years married to Andrew, endless sacrifices to finally have a place of our own—only for his mother to turn it into a guesthouse without so much as asking. The final straw was her friend Lydia, whom she’d foisted upon us as if we were running a bed and breakfast.
Andrew and I came from small villages. Years of scraping by in rented flats, where mould was our most loyal housemate, taught us the value of every penny. We scrimped on everything—meals out, holidays, even decent furniture—just to get a mortgage. Our families offered little help: my mum gave us a blender as a wedding gift, while his mother, Margaret, handed us a toaster that broke within a month.
After years of saving, we finally bought a one-bedroom flat. We did the renovations ourselves—no money for builders. Andrew stayed up late painting walls while I sanded floors until my arms ached. Not that any relatives lifted a finger. We only saw them at Christmas. But the moment the place was livable, Margaret announced, *“You must host my friend Lydia. I pulled strings to get her a spa retreat, and she owes me. Show her around!”*
No question of whether we *wanted* to. No thought for our time or space. Just a demand, as if her favour to Lydia was now *our* burden. So while she got to play the generous benefactor, we were left catering to a stranger, paying for meals and playing tour guide. Andrew, ever the peacekeeper, said nothing.
Lydia was shameless. She treated us like unpaid staff, demanding coffee here, lunch there, more photos, *another* trip to the cathedral. I seethed but bit my tongue—for Andrew’s sake. This wasn’t the first time. A year ago, his uncle Geoffrey stayed a month, eating our food, drinking our wine, and once swiping Andrew’s coat, claiming it suited him better. When I protested, Margaret waved it off: *“Oh, he’s just having a laugh. Young men need their fun.”*
Lydia left glowing, but the anger stayed. I knew this wasn’t over. Andrew couldn’t say no to his mother. He’d forgotten how she kicked him out at 17 with nothing but a rucksack, shouting that he’d have to *make his own way*. Now she played the doting parent, and he lapped it up.
I tried reasoning with him. *We’re a family now. We’ll have a baby soon. We can’t keep hosting strangers.* But he just stared blankly. *“Mum means well, Emily,”* he’d say, like a broken record.
Means well? Margaret *uses* us. She’s got a two-bedroom house—why not host her own guests there? Not a penny toward our flat, yet she’s quick to exploit our kindness. It makes my blood boil, watching her simper at Andrew while trampling over our lives.
Last week, I snapped. The moment Lydia left, Margaret rang to *thank* us—then hinted her cousin might visit soon. *“Enough!”* I yelled. *“This is our home, not a hotel! If you want to help your friends, take them in yourself!”*
She scoffed. *“Ungrateful! After all I’ve done?”*
Andrew paled. *“Emily, why’d you speak to Mum like that? She doesn’t mean harm.”*
I looked at him, heart sinking. He doesn’t see how she manipulates him. How she’s chipping away at *us*. I want to protect our home, our future child—but how, when my husband takes her side?
Now I’m stuck: stay silent and resentful, or risk it all with a line in the sand. I dream of Margaret vanishing, of Andrew waking up to her games. But if I push too hard, I might lose him instead. How do I put her in her place without breaking my own family?
