“Oi, this isn’t a hotel!”—My brother-in-law moved in, and now I can’t get rid of him.
Two years ago, me and my husband finally moved into our own flat. Small, sure, but ours. Well—technically, it belonged to his family, and before us, his older brother, *Oliver*, had lived there for years. Was I thrilled about that? Nah. But family’s family—I knew to respect it. I bit my tongue, stayed out of their business, played the “understanding” wife.
But Oliver had this *way* about him—got under my skin from day one. Thirty-five years old and never held down a proper job, always mooching off his mum, acting like the world owed him something. Loved playing the know-it-all, lecturing everyone, pretending he was some deep thinker. Truth? Just a lazy git through and through.
When we moved in, Oliver wasn’t even there—he’d gone off to *Canterbury*, supposedly “studying” and planning to stay. My mother-in-law gave us free rein to do whatever with the flat—redecorate, new furniture, the lot. She even said Oliver wouldn’t be coming back. And honestly, the place was *grim*. Not so much a home as a dingy, smoky den—dirt in every corner, stains on the walls.
Those awful brown wallpapers, the ceiling covered in weird marks, a sofa with springs poking out like it was trying to escape. Felt less like a human lived there and more like… well, something else. Every crack was stuffed with rubbish, the air thick like an old pub carpet. Me and my bloke spent a whole day hauling out bin bags, then slept on a mattress for weeks, eating off cardboard boxes. But after? Fresh paint, new furniture, proper cosy. The place finally felt like *ours*.
And for two years, life was peaceful. No surprise guests, no slamming doors. I’d almost forgotten Oliver existed—until my mother-in-law called, her voice all shaky: “Oliver’s coming back. Things didn’t work out for him over there.”
My husband just shrugged it off. “Bad luck, happens.” But a few days later, she rang again: “He’s not staying with me—he’s coming to *you*. I offered, he refused. Says the countryside’s not for him, *has* to be in the city.” She sounded exhausted. Knew it was awkward, but what else could she do?
Oliver showed up. One bag, a pack of fags, and all his bad habits. No kids yet, so the flat’s tight, but we shoved a fold-out in the kitchen for him. Figured it’d be a week, tops. *Wrong*. He settled in like he owned the place.
And then it started. Plates piled in the sink. Muddy boot prints *everywhere*—even on the rug by the bed. Ashtrays overflowing. Couldn’t even open a window without choking on smoke, like living in a back-alley pub. And the *comments*—”Why d’you buy so much meat? Waste of money.” “You’re washing the shelves wrong.” “That detergent’s too pricey, what’s the point?”
Him—never worked a day in his life—suddenly an expert on *my* spending. And I’m just supposed to take it. Then my husband gets sent away for *three months* on work, leaving me alone with this… housemate from hell.
I tried talking to my husband. Told him it’s wearing me down, that I don’t wanna share a roof with some bloke who can’t even say *cheers* when I cook. But he just sighs: “He’s family. Going through a rough patch. Give it time.”
But I’m *done*. This is *my* home. *My* air, *my* space. I clean, I cook, I keep it nice—and he just *exists* here like it’s his right. I don’t wanna seem like a nag, but I’m not his maid or a B&B host. This isn’t a bloody hostel.
What do I do? Keep swallowing the mess, the smoke, the lectures? Or put my foot down and risk a row? I’m scared if I keep “keeping the peace,” I’ll lose myself in the process.
