*”This isn’t a hotel!”* — My brother-in-law moved in, and now I can’t get rid of him.
Two years ago, my husband and I finally moved into our own flat. Small, but ours. Though, to be honest, it belonged to his family, and before us, his older brother—**Theo**—had lived there for years. To say I was thrilled would be a lie. But I understood—family matters, respect is important. I tried to accept it, stay out of their business, be the *understanding* one.
But Theo had one *tiny* problem—he annoyed me from the start. Thirty-five years old and never held down a proper job, living off his mother, acting like the world owed him something. Always playing the intellectual, lecturing, pretending to be some deep thinker. Meanwhile, the man was a slob of the highest order.
When we moved in, Theo wasn’t there—he’d gone off to **Brighton**, claiming he was *studying* and wanted to settle there. My mother-in-law gave us free rein with the place: redecorate, rearrange, whatever we liked. She even said Theo wouldn’t be coming back. And honestly, it was unlivable. It wasn’t a home—it was a den, grey and stale, reeking of smoke, dust, and who-knows-what-else.
The walls were a dirty beige, the ceiling stained, the sofa springs poking out like broken bones. It felt like something *other* than people had lived there. Every crack held rubbish, the air thick like an old pub’s backroom. We spent days hauling out bin bags of junk, then weeks sleeping on a mattress and eating off cardboard boxes. But then—new furniture, fresh paint, warmth, comfort. The flat came alive. It was *home*.
For two years, we lived peacefully. No uninvited guests, no shouting matches. I’d nearly forgotten Theo existed. Until my mother-in-law called—her voice trembling, barely a whisper: *”Theo’s coming back. Things didn’t work out for him there.”*
My husband took it calmly. *”Just bad luck,”* he said. But a few days later, she called again: *”He’s not coming to me—he’s coming to you. I offered, he refused. Says the countryside’s not for him, needs to be in the city.”* Her voice was exhausted. She knew it was unfair but had no other choice.
Theo arrived. With his duffel bag, his cigarettes, his *habits*. We don’t have kids yet, space is tight, but we gave him the fold-out in the kitchen. I thought it’d be a week, maybe two. I was wrong. He settled in for *the long haul*.
And then it started. Dirty plates left in the sink. Muddy footprints *everywhere*, even on the rug by our bed. An ashtray overflowing on the counter. The windows stayed shut—the flat choking on smoke like the backroom of a dodgy pub. And worst of all—the *lectures*: *”Why are you buying so much meat? You should save.”* *”You’re cleaning the shelves wrong.”* *”That detergent’s too expensive—what do you need it for?”*
Him—a man who’d never worked a day—now schooling *me* on how to live. And I tolerated it. Then my husband got sent away for work—three months. Leaving me alone with this… *lodger*.
I tried to explain to my husband. Said it was too much, that I didn’t want to share a roof with another man who wouldn’t even say *cheers* for dinner. But he just sighed: *”He’s my brother. He’s having a rough patch. Bear with it.”*
But I can’t anymore. This is *my* home. *My* air, *my* space. I clean, I cook, I keep things right. And he just *exists*—like it’s his due. I don’t want to seem hysterical, but I’m not a maid. Not a hostel manager. This isn’t a shared house.
What do I do? Endure the mess, the smoke, the sermons? Or stand my ground and risk the peace? I’m afraid if I keep swallowing this, I’ll lose myself in the quiet.
