“This isn’t a hotel!” — My brother-in-law has moved in, and I can’t get rid of him.
Two years ago, my husband and I finally moved into our own flat. It wasn’t big, but it was ours. Technically, it belonged to his family, and before us, his older brother, James, had lived there for years. To say I was thrilled about that would be a lie—but family matters, and I tried to respect that. I kept my distance, stayed out of their dynamics, played the “understanding” role.
But James 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 while acting like the world owed him something. He’d play the philosopher, lecture everyone, pretend he knew best—yet he was the laziest sod you could meet.
When we moved in, James wasn’t there—he’d gone off to Brighton, supposedly “studying” and planning to settle there. My mother-in-law gave us free rein to do whatever we wanted with the flat: redecorate, buy new furniture—it was entirely up to us. She even said James wouldn’t be coming back. And honestly, the place was barely livable. It wasn’t a home—it was a grimy, smoke-stained den, covered in dust and stains.
The walls were a dingy brown, the ceiling streaked with water marks, the sofa springs poking through. It felt like no human had lived there—just something else. Every crack was packed with rubbish, the air thick with the stench of an old ashtray. My husband and I spent days hauling garbage bags out, then slept on a mattress and ate off cardboard boxes for weeks. But eventually, the flat transformed—new furniture, fresh white walls, warmth, comfort. It finally felt like a proper home.
For two years, we lived peacefully. No unwanted guests, no shouting matches. I’d almost forgotten who James was. Then my mother-in-law called—her voice trembling, barely a whisper: “James is coming back. Things didn’t work out for him there.”
My husband took it in stride. “Bad luck,” he said. But a few days later, she called again: “He isn’t coming to me. He’s coming to you. I offered, but he refused. Says he needs to be in the city.” She sounded exhausted. She knew this was awkward, but what choice did she have?
James arrived—suitcase in hand, cigarettes in pocket, bad habits in tow. We don’t have children, so space is tight, but we set up a camp bed in the kitchen. I thought he’d stay a week or two. I was wrong. He made himself at home—*permanently*.
And then it started. Dirty plates in the sink. Muddy footprints everywhere—even on the rug by the bed. An ashtray overflowing on the counter. The windows stayed shut because the place reeked like a pub basement. And worst of all—his *tone*: “Why do you buy so much meat? You should save money.” “You’re cleaning the shelves wrong.” “That washing powder’s too expensive—why bother?”
Him—who’s never worked a day—lecturing *me* on how to live. And I bit my tongue. Then my husband got sent on a three-month business trip. And I was left alone—with this *lodger*.
I tried explaining it to my husband. Told him I couldn’t stand living with another man who wouldn’t even say thank you for dinner. He just sighed. “He’s family. He’s struggling. Give it time.”
But I’m done. This is *my* home. *My* air, *my* space. I clean, I cook, I keep things tidy. And he just… *exists*, like it’s his right. I don’t want to seem like a nag. But I’m not a maid—or a bloody B&B host. This isn’t a shared house.
What do I do? Endure the mess, the smoke, the smug advice? Or stand my ground and risk an argument? I’m scared that trying to keep the peace might cost me my sanity.
