“We Came to Visit, but You’re Not Here!”: How One Family Visit Turned Into a Proper Scandal
My name is Emily, and I live in London with my husband, James. Our story began twelve years ago when I first moved to the capital to study at university. After graduating, I landed a job, and fate soon introduced me to James. We dated for about a year before tying the knot.
The first few years of married life were spent under his parents’ roof, pinching every penny to save for our own place. Finally, we bought a cosy two-bedroom flat—albeit with a mortgage we’ll be paying off for years. Still, it was ours—a little fortress of our own.
You’d think life would be smooth sailing from there, wouldn’t you? But no sooner had we settled in than an avalanche of unexpected visitors descended upon us. Relatives—because of course—started making pilgrimages to London to “drop by” and “see the sights.” Naturally, none seemed keen on splashing out for a hotel. After all, we had a “two-bedder”—there was *plenty* of space…
This summer, after years without a proper holiday, James and I finally managed to align our schedules and book time off together. We’d been dreaming of the seaside for ages. Tickets were booked for the 15th of June, and I threw myself into packing—suitcases, tickets, plans galore.
Then, on the 10th of June, my cousin Sarah rang. All chirpy and bright:
“Em, we’ve had a brilliant idea! We’re coming to see you—me, my husband, and the little one—on the 20th! You’ll be home, yeah?”
I paused for half a second before replying, ever so calmly:
“Sarah, we’re on holiday by then. We won’t be here.”
Her response was… let’s just say, unexpected:
“What holiday?! Just cancel it! We haven’t seen each other in months! Family comes first!”
I took a deep breath and stood my ground:
“No. We’re going away as planned. Tickets are booked, bags are packed. Not even for you, Sarah, will I scrap this trip.”
*Click.* She hung up. I shrugged and went back to folding beach towels. On the 15th, we flew out—sun, sand, bliss.
Then, on the evening of the 20th, my phone rang. Sarah’s number. Absentmindedly, I answered—only to be met with shrieking:
“Emily! Where on earth are you?! We’re outside your flat, ringing the bell, and no one’s home! This is outrageous!”
Cool as a cucumber, I replied:
“We’re at the seaside, Sarah. I did warn you.”
“I thought you were joking! Just trying to put us off!”
“No. I meant it.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do now?!”
“Book a hotel. Or go home.”
“We can’t afford a hotel!”
“Well, that’s your call. You’re grown-ups. I did my part—I told you in advance.”
*Click.* Down went the receiver again. Haven’t heard from her since.
Later, I found out Sarah had spun the tale far and wide—painted me as some heartless monster who’d left her own flesh and blood stranded! Worst of all? Most of the family took her side. Apparently, I was meant to “make it work” for the sake of hospitality.
But here’s my stance: What exactly did I do wrong? Was it a crime to want a holiday with my husband after years of grinding? To give fair warning?
Sarah had all the facts, time to adjust her plans, every chance to rethink. If she couldn’t stretch to a hotel—well, that’s her problem, not my duty.
And you know what this whole saga taught me? Sometimes, even family won’t respect your boundaries. They expect you to always bend over backwards for their convenience. Say no? Suddenly, you’re the villain.
Well, I’m done apologising for choosing myself. For anyone.
So—tell me. Was I really in the wrong?
