Is it worth sacrificing yourself for someone else’s holiday? How I refused to host in-laws for free in my seaside home—and became an outcast.
I’ve long accepted that my life isn’t easy. Responsibilities, hard work—it’s all just part of the routine now, and somewhere along the way, I lost myself in it. Now they call me greedy, heartless, money-hungry. But all I did was say no, just once, to being everyone’s doormat. I want to share my story—not to be judged, but so you understand: behind every “stingy” woman isn’t greed, but exhaustion no one sees.
Our seaside cottage in Cornwall is what many call idyllic. Spacious, tidy, with a garden and a cosy summerhouse. But few know how much blood and sweat went into it. My parents left us a crumbling shed on a plot in Penzance. My husband and I spent over a decade rebuilding it—brick by brick, room by room, all by ourselves, without help. We added an extension, fitted plumbing and gas, laid out the garden, and built guest cabins.
Now, yes, it’s a small business. In summer, when tourists flood in, we rent out everything—even our own bedroom. We sleep in a storage shed on fold-out beds. Guests pay not just for lodging but for home-cooked meals. I’m up at dawn, cooking, laundering sheets, cleaning, checking guests in and out. By July, I can’t remember the last time I ate or slept properly.
Still, I don’t complain. Because those summer months feed us the rest of the year. Almost everything we earn goes to our daughter and son-in-law—they’re paying off a mortgage, and we’re glad to help. We’re not young anymore; our health isn’t what it was, but we carry on.
Then came the problem.
Recently, our daughter announced she and her husband were off to Spain. Happy for them? Sure. Then she added, casually, “Oh, and my in-laws will stay with you this summer. They’ve never had a seaside holiday. Mum, make it nice for them, won’t you? And don’t charge them—they’re pensioners.” I was speechless.
Her in-laws? The ones who didn’t even call when my husband and I had COVID and the whole place nearly fell apart? The ones who showed up for an hour at her wedding and left? The ones who haven’t spared us a thought in eight years—until free accommodation by the sea came up?
I checked the bookings ledger—every day was full. Tourists had reserved back in January, even our bedroom, taken by a young couple with a sick toddler. My husband and I were set to sleep in a tent—literally. So in that chaos, between guests, the shed, the tent, and sheer exhaustion—where was I meant to put two elderly people who’d expect comfort, quiet, and attention?
I’ve nothing against family. But this isn’t a holiday retreat—it’s how we survive. We’ve no other income. And after the pandemic, tourism’s only just picking up. We’re barely getting back on our feet, and now this?
I told my daughter no. That it wouldn’t work. That I couldn’t handle it, physically or mentally. The backlash was instant. My husband was hurt—“They’re family.” My son-in-law sneered, “Embarrassing for my parents.” Friends and neighbours whisper, “Too posh to share now.” And my daughter? She just went silent. And I realised—to everyone, I’m no longer the woman who bent over backwards for them, but a miserly old hag hoarding pennies.
That night, I sat on the porch, listened to the waves, and cried. I’m tired of being kind. Tired of giving everything and getting demands in return. No one asked how I was. No one offered to help. It never crossed their minds that I might just be worn out.
Now I’m left wondering: stick to my decision and be hated, or give in and grind myself down again—just to keep everyone happy.
Tell me, what would you do?
