“This isn’t a hotel!” — My husband’s brother moved in, and I can’t get rid of him
Two years ago, my husband and I finally moved into our own flat. Small, but ours. Though it belonged to his family, and for years before us, his older brother, Timothy, had lived there. To say I was thrilled about that would be a lie. Still, I understood—family matters, and respect was due. I tried to accept it, kept out of their affairs, played the “understanding” role.
But Timothy had one flaw—he irritated me from the start. Thirty-five years old, yet he’d never held a proper job, leeching off his mother and acting as if the world owed him something. He played the know-it-all, lectured everyone, pretended to be some great philosopher. Yet in truth, he was as lazy as they come.
When we moved in, Timothy wasn’t there—he’d gone off to Manchester, claiming he was “studying” and meant to settle there. My mother-in-law gave us free rein to do as we pleased with the flat: new decor, furniture—all our choice. She even said Timothy wouldn’t be returning. And honestly, the place had been unlivable. Not a home, but a dingy, smoke-stained den, coated in dust and grime.
The wallpaper was a filthy brown, the ceiling streaked, the sofa springs jutting out like ribs. It felt as if something other than people had lived there. Every crack was filled with rubbish, the air thick like an old pub’s smoking room. My husband and I spent days hauling out bin bags of junk, then weeks sleeping on a mattress and eating off cardboard boxes. But after—new furniture, fresh white walls, warmth, comfort. The flat came alive, finally feeling like a home.
For two years, we lived peacefully. No unwanted guests, no shouting matches. I’d nearly forgotten Timothy existed. Then my mother-in-law called—her voice shaking, barely above a whisper: “Timothy’s coming back. Things didn’t work out for him there.”
My husband took it calmly. Tough luck for his brother, he said—these things happen. But days later, she rang again: “He isn’t coming to me—he’s coming to you. I offered, he refused. The countryside isn’t good enough for him, apparently—he wants the city.” Exhaustion weighed her words. She knew it was unfair, but clearly, she had no choice.
Timothy arrived. A bag, cigarettes, and all his bad habits in tow. We don’t have children yet, so space is tight, but we gave him the kitchen for his fold-out bed. Back then, I thought it’d be a week, maybe two. I was wrong. He settled in “for the long haul.”
And so it began. Dirty plates left in the sink. Muddy footprints everywhere, even on the rug by our bed. The ashtray on the kitchen counter—overflowing. You couldn’t open a window without choking on smoke, thick as a cellar’s. And worst of all—his lectures: “Why buy so much meat? You should save.” “You’re scrubbing the shelves wrong.” “This washing powder’s too expensive—what do you need it for?”
Him—who’d never worked a day in his life—now schooling me on how to live. And I endured it. Then my husband was called away—three months on assignment. Leaving me alone with this… housemate.
I tried to explain it to my husband. Told him it was too much, that I shouldn’t have to share a roof with a stranger who wouldn’t even say thank you for supper. But he just sighed. “He’s my brother. He’s struggling. Bear with it.”
But I can’t anymore. This is my home. My air, my space. I clean, I cook, I keep things in order. And he just exists—like it’s his right. I don’t want to seem hysterical to my husband. But I’m not a maid, and this isn’t a boarding house. We don’t live in shared lodgings.
What do I do? Suffer the mess, the smoke, the sermons in silence? Or stand my ground and risk the peace? I’m terrified that if I keep swallowing this, I’ll lose myself in the process.
