“Oi, this isn’t a B&B!” — my husband’s brother moved in, and now I can’t get rid of him.
Two years ago, me and my bloke finally got our own flat. Small, but ours. Well, technically, it belonged to his family, and his older brother, Tom, had lived there for years before us. Was I thrilled about that? Not a chance. But I get it—family’s important, gotta respect that. I tried to keep my nose out of it, play the understanding wife.
But Tom? He got on my nerves from day one. Thirty-five years old and never held down a proper job, mooching off their mum like the world owed him something. Always acting like some know-it-all, playing philosopher while being the laziest git you’d ever meet.
When we moved in, Tom wasn’t even there—he’d swanned off to Brighton, supposedly “studying” and planning to settle down. His mum gave us free rein to do whatever—new paint, furniture, the lot. She even said Tom wouldn’t be back. And honestly? The place was a tip. More like a dodgy old den than a home. Grim brown wallpaper, stained ceilings, a sofa with springs poking out. Felt like animals had lived there, not people. Every corner was stuffed with rubbish, and it reeked like an old pub ashtray. We spent days chucking out bags of junk, then weeks sleeping on a mattress and eating off boxes. But it was worth it—fresh furniture, light walls, proper cosy. The flat finally felt like home.
Two peaceful years. No unexpected guests, no shouting matches. I’d almost forgotten Tom existed. Then his mum calls—voice all shaky, barely a whisper: “Tom’s coming back. Things didn’t work out down there.”
My husband just shrugged it off. “Life’s tough, happens to everyone.” But a few days later, another call: “He’s not coming to mine, he’s staying with you. I offered, but he refused. Says the countryside’s not for him—needs to be in the city.” She sounded exhausted. Knew it was awkward but didn’t have a choice.
And there he was. One duffel bag, a pack of fags, and all his old habits. No kids yet, so space was tight—we set up a camp bed in the kitchen. Thought he’d crash for a week, max. Nope. He made himself right at home.
Then the fun began. Dirty plates piled in the sink. Muddy footprints everywhere, even on the bedroom rug. Ashtrays overflowing. The flat reeked like a back-alley pub. And the lectures? “Why’re you buying so much meat? Waste of money.” “You’re scrubbing the shelves wrong.” “That washing powder’s too dear, what’s wrong with the cheap stuff?”
Him—never worked a day in his life—telling *me* how to live. And I bit my tongue. Then my husband gets sent away for work—three months. Leaving me *alone* with this… lodger.
I tried explaining to my husband. Said I was knackered, didn’t want to share my space with some bloke who couldn’t even say “cheers” for dinner. But he just sighed: “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 things tidy. And him? Acts like it’s his birthright. I don’t wanna be the nagging wife, but I’m not a maid or a B&B owner. This isn’t a bloody hostel.
What do I do? Put up with the mess, the fags, the unsolicited advice? Or put my foot down and risk a row? I’m scared if I keep the peace, I’ll lose myself in the process.
