Temporary Housemates: When Family Crashes in and Overstays Their Welcome

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Theyll Stay for a While

Listen, love, I need to talk to you

I braced myself for what was coming. Mum only ever drew things out like this the long drawn liiiisten when she was about to ask for something awkward.

Do you remember Sophie, Aunt Veras daughter? Technically my second cousin. Which I guess makes her some sort of cousin to you.
Some sort Mum, I met her once. At grandmas funeral. That was, what ten years ago?
Doesnt matter! Familys family. Anyway, shes in trouble. Her, the husband, and their son are being evicted from their rented flat. Owners are selling up, can you imagine?

I rubbed my forehead and stared through the window, watching the bleak December afternoon fading away. My coffee was cooling, and so was my patience.

Mum, Im sorry to hear that. But what does this have to do with me?
Sweetheart, youre living alone in that huge three-bed. They just need a place to stay for a bit, a month or two, until they find something
No.

It slipped out before Id even really thought it through.

No? Mum sounded thrown by how blunt I was. You havent even heard me out!
Mum, Im not letting people I barely know into my home. Especially with a child. And especially for some indefinite amount of time.
Its not indefinite! I said just a couple of months, maximum. Sophies husband has work, theyll save up for a deposit and move. Jess their boy hes eight, you know. Without your help theyll be out on the street!
There are rooms to rent. Hostels. Hotels. Loads of options.
How? Theyre skint. You get it? Theyre being chucked out, quite literally onto the pavement!
Mum, thats not my problem.

She started crying, quietly at first, not for show just little ragged breaths. I closed my eyes.

I dont know who you are anymore, she managed between tears. My own daughter; youre heartless. You dont care that blood family is struggling.
Theyre not my blood. Theyre yours.
Well, if theyre mine, theyre yours! Or have you forgotten what familys supposed to mean? What helping your own looks like?
Mum, I work from home. I need quiet. I need space. I cant live with strangers.
Just for a bit! Youve got three bedrooms! Three! And you live there like some old hermit. Not even a cat for company Couldnt you at least make the place useful?
It is useful. I live here.
Selfish, she sniffled. Raised a selfish child, never thought youd turn your back on your own for a piece of bread.
Im not refusing bread. Im refusing to let strangers into my house.

We went round and round. Mum repeated the same pleas, I stuck with my answers. Forty minutes on, I realised Id already said Id think about it twice. And then: Well, maybe, it could work.

Just for a month, I said at last. Maximum two. If anything goes wrong, they leave straightaway.
Of course, of course! Oh Alice, youre wonderful! You have no idea how grateful I am!

Revulsion settled in my chest. Not physical, not nausea, just that stifling dread when you know youve made a stupid, irreversible choice.

The next morning the doorbell rang at seven. Half-asleep and grumpy, I opened the door and nearly got flattened by a wave of suitcases, holdalls, boxes, and an eight-year-olds shrieking.

Alice! Love! Sophie breezed in, landed a big smooch on my cheek. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Youre a hero!

Behind her came a hulking bloke in joggers, and the boy Jess who set off at full speed to explore the flat.

Tom, bring that big bag in quick! Sophie called.

I counted seven suitcases, four boxes, and two massive plastic tubs. For a couple of months it was rather a lot.

Well settle in quickly, Sophie assured me. Youll barely notice were here.

The first two weeks went by in managed chaos. I retreated to my bedroom, tried working as the TV blared in the lounge and Jesss feet pattered up and down the corridor. I kept telling myself it was just temporary, bearable. Nothing terrible.

Then Sophie rearranged my kitchen its just easier this way. Tom turned the balcony into a relaxation area. Jess broke the bathroom door handle, and nobody even bothered to fix it.

Sophie, I caught her in the kitchen, we need to talk. Youve been here a month. Any luck with the flat hunting?
Were trying, she said, phone glued to her hand. Its all stupidly expensive, honestly. Well find something soon, dont worry.
Can you give me a specific timeframe?

She paused. Something changed in her gaze, subtly.

Alice, where are we supposed to go? The street? With Jess?
Im not kicking you out onto the street. Im asking
Were looking! Sophies voice shot up. What else do you want? That we sleep at the train station?

Tom appeared.

Is there a problem?

I looked at both of them. No longer grateful or sheepish just defensive.

No, I said. No problem.

And I retreated to my room.

There were problems, though. Plenty of them, piling up each day. Tom occupied the bathroom exactly when I had morning calls with clients. Sophie shifted my groceries to the bottom fridge shelf so hers could go up top just more convenient. Jess had mastered cranking cartoons up full blast at seven each weekend morning.

I worked fitfully. Fell asleep to the drone of their TV. Woke up to Tom dropping something with a bang in the hall.

One day I came home from the shop and found my work desk buried under Jesss toys. Sophie was curled up in my swivel chair, scrolling on her phone.

Oh, youre back, she said, barely looking up. We need faster Internet. Yours is painfully slow.
Thats my work space.
So? Jess doesnt have room in the bedroom to play.

I packed up the toys in silence, dumped them in the corridor. Sophie snorted, but didnt say anything.

The utility bill arrived soon after. The amount was double. I left the slip on the kitchen table when everyone came in for dinner.

We need to talk about sharing costs.

Tom chewed, eyes glued to his plate. Sophie cut her fishcake.

What costs?
Bills. Theres three of you, and one of me. Its reasonable to split at least half.

Sophie put her fork down.

Alice, you serious? Were family. Youre not going to start asking for money, are you?
Just split the bills. Thats normal.
Normal? Tom finally looked up. Normal is helping family out. Not shaking people down, especially when theyre in a tight spot.
Youve lived here two months. For free. Using my Wi-Fi. Im not asking for rent just bills.
You know what, Sophie got up, if youre that tight about a couple of quid, just say so. Dont pretend to be a saint.

I watched them walk out. Jess snatched the last crust. Tom muttered miser as he went.

I sat there till midnight, remembering Mums words about family duty. Added up how much money Id spent on these unwanted guests. Wondered how much more I could take.

The next morning, I walked into the lounge where Sophie and Tom were watching TV.

Youve got a week.

Sophie didnt even look up.

What?
A week to find somewhere else and move.

Now both turned round.

Are you off your rocker? Tom leapt up. Where are we supposed to go?
Thats not my concern. I gave you two months. You havent looked for a place, havent paid a thing, havent respected my boundaries. Thats it.
Who do you think you are? Sophie stood up, too. Queen of the castle because you own a flat?
Im the owner. And I want you out.
Does your mother know how you treat your family? Tom should we ring her?
Go on.

Sophie grabbed her mobile. I didnt move. Let her call. Let Mum rage, sob, accuse. Id already decided.

One week, I said again. If youre still here after seven days, Ill call the police.
You! Sophie was breathless with indignation. How dare you! Weve helped you! We
You didnt help. You lived here, for free. Big difference.

I spun around, locked myself in my room, sat on the bed hugging my knees. My heart thudded in my throat, but a calm unlike anything else just settled over me.

That week was hellish. Sophie stopped cleaning up, Tom accidentally busted a shelf in the hallway, Jess took to scribbling on my wallpaper with his markers. I took photos of everything.

On the seventh day, they left. Tom hauled the cases down, cursing at every step. Sophie turned at the door:

Hope all this comes back to you as karma!

I closed the door after them.

I wandered through the flat, clearing their mess. Threw open the windows aired out the stale smell from the relaxation zone. Put the kitchen back how it used to be.

By evening, my flat felt like home again.

I poured myself a glass of wine and curled up on the sofa. My phone stayed silent Mum was probably still recovering from Sophies latest complaints. Shell survive.

Kindness is good, yes. But kindness without limits becomes weakness. And weakness is always exploited.

I promised myself never again. No more family debts. No more short stays. No more strangers living under my roof.
I finished my wine, washed my glass, and went to bed. For the first time in months in perfect silence.

I’m 60 and soon to be 61 — it’s not a milestone birthday like 70 or 80, but it matters to me. I want to celebrate it—not with a last-minute cake or a rushed lunch, but with a real, well-organised party: dinner, beautifully set tables, decorated chairs, waiters, soft music. Something that makes me feel alive, appreciated, grateful for everything I’ve come through. The problem is, my children don’t agree. I have two grown sons, both living with me along with their partners and children. The house is always full: noise, TV, children running, conversations, arguments. I love them, of course… but I never have a quiet moment. I’m never alone. Never. I cover most of the expenses, with my pension, the money my husband left me, and a small business I still run. I pay the bills, grocery shop, deal with repairs, and ‘temporary’ help that’s become permanent. I never minded helping. What troubles me is that now, they decide everything for me. When I said I wanted to host a celebration, they told me it was a waste of money. At my age, there’s no point spending on parties, food, and waiters, they said. It would be better to give them the money—for investments, for needs, for ‘something useful.’ They spoke to me as if I was being irresponsible with my own money. I explained that I’m not borrowing, and I’ve thought about this for months. But they didn’t listen. And one of them said, ‘Mum, parties aren’t for you anymore.’ That hurt more than I expected. I started to think about things I never dared to say aloud. That sometimes I want to be alone in my own home. That I miss waking up to silence. That I long to come home to a quiet living room. That I want to make decisions without justifying myself. I’ve even considered telling them to find their own place—not out of spite, but because I feel I’ve done my part. But then guilt eats at me. I’m scared to sound selfish. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to throw anyone out for a night. I just want to know if I’m wrong to want to celebrate. To want silence sometimes. To want my money used for me, too. I’m writing because I don’t know what to do—stand my ground, or give in again. Should I have my party, even if they don’t approve? Am I wrong for wanting to celebrate my birthday my way, and for wanting my home and my money not to be a ‘family decision’?

Happy Women Always Look Their Best Lily struggled through her husband’s betrayal. At forty, she found herself alone; her daughter was studying at university in another city. Just two months earlier, Igor had come home and announced: “I’m leaving you, I’ve fallen in love.” Shocked, Lily asked, “With whom?” He replied flatly, “The way men always do… I’ve met someone else, I’m happier with her. Don’t try to persuade me—I’ve made up my mind.” He packed his things and left, all matter-of-fact, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was only later, after analysing things, that Lily realised he hadn’t made his decision overnight—he’d been quietly preparing to leave, only throwing his things in a suitcase at the last minute before slamming the door shut. Alone now, Lily cried and convinced herself that nothing good would ever happen to her again, that life had either ended or frozen. She withdrew from friends, ignored calls from her daughter and best friend, and even distanced herself from colleagues, some of whom pitied her while others looked on with schadenfreude. Lily even hoped: “Maybe Igor will tire of the woman who stole him from me, maybe he’ll come back and I’ll forgive him. After all, I still love him.” One morning, a phone call from an unknown number disrupted her despair: “Could it be Igor?” she wondered, hoping irrationally. But the call was from Ksenia, an old school friend, back in town after years away. Ksenia was radiant—well-groomed, stylish, and bursting with energy. She took charge, arriving with wine, cake, and oranges for a spontaneous celebration. After hearing Lily’s woes, Ksenia dismissed them: “Don’t make life so hard! You just need a change—a new look, some shopping, and maybe new love.” She whisked Lily to the mall and hairdresser, transforming her with a fresh haircut and stylish outfit. A week later at their school reunion, Lily’s transformation stunned everyone, especially Viktor, an old admirer who had also recently gone through a divorce. Viktor showered her with attention, and their easy happiness made Lily feel new and vibrant again. Two months later, strolling arm-in-arm with Viktor along the embankment after a theatre night, Lily spotted Igor—thinner now, and alone. He didn’t recognise her at first, but when he realised, he was shocked: “You look amazing!” Lily smiled and introduced him to Viktor as her “future husband.” As Igor gaped, Lily took Viktor’s hand and walked confidently away. For happy women always look their best.

I’m 60 and about to turn 61 in two months—not a milestone birthday like 70 or 80, but it means a lot to me. I want to celebrate it properly: not with a hurried cake or a casual lunch, but with a real, well-organised party—an elegant dinner, beautifully set tables, decorated chairs, waiters, soft music. Something that will make me feel alive, appreciated, and grateful for everything I’ve been through. The problem is, my children don’t agree. I have two grown-up sons. Both live with me—with their partners and children. The house is always full: noise, TV blaring, children running, conversations, arguments. Of course I love them… but I have no quiet moments anymore. I’m never alone. Never. They work, but in truth, I cover most of the expenses. I have a pension, money my husband left me, and a small business I still run. I pay the bills, buy the groceries, pay for repairs, and often provide ‘temporary help’ that turns permanent. Helping never bothered me. What bothers me now is that my sons make decisions for me. When I told them I wanted to have a party, they claimed it was a waste of money. That, at my age, I shouldn’t spend it on tables, food, and waiters. That the money would be better given to them—for investments, for their own needs, for ‘something useful’. They spoke to me as if I were irresponsible with my own savings. I explained that I wouldn’t need to borrow and that I’ve been thinking about this for months. But they wouldn’t listen, insisting it’s an unnecessary expense. One of them said to me: — Mum, things like this aren’t for you anymore. That stung more than I expected. I started thinking things I never dared say aloud. That sometimes I just want to be alone in my own house. That I miss waking up to peace and quiet. That I wish I could come home to an empty living room. That I want to make decisions without having to justify myself. I’ve even considered telling them to find their own place—not out of spite, but because I feel like I’ve done my part. But then I feel guilty. I’m afraid of sounding selfish. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to ‘kick anyone out’ for the night. I just want to know if I’m wrong for wanting to celebrate. For craving a bit of quiet. For wanting my money to be spent on me, too. I’m writing because I genuinely don’t know what to do—whether to stand my ground or give in. Whether to have the party even though they disapprove. Tell me, am I wrong to want to celebrate my birthday my way—and to want my home and my money not to be a ‘family decision’?