Sunday, 12th March
I don’t fancy it one bit, but here I am packing our bags to take my son Daniel to stay with my mum, Margaret Woodley. All because yesterday, while we were out for a stroll, my husband Simon decided to play the gracious host and let his relatives—his cousin Emily with her husband Oliver and their two kids, Lily and Noah—stay in our bedroom. And the most infuriating part? He didn’t even think to ask me first! Just casually dropped, “You and Daniel can stay at your mum’s—there’s plenty of room.” I’m still reeling from the cheek of it. This is our home, our bedroom, and now I’m expected to clear out for strangers? Absolutely not.
It started when we got back from our walk. Daniel, worn out and cranky as usual, needed a nap, and I was looking forward to a quiet cuppa. But the moment I stepped inside, chaos greeted me. Emily and Oliver were already settled in our bedroom, where Simon, Daniel, and I sleep. Their kids, Lily and Noah, were tearing about, scattering toys everywhere, while my things—books, makeup, even my laptop—had been shoved into a corner like I no longer lived here. I stood there, stunned, and asked Simon, “What on earth is this?” He might as well have been commenting on the weather for all the calm in his voice: “Emily’s family needed a place to stay. Thought you and Daniel could pop over to Margaret’s—she’s got the space.”
I nearly choked on my indignation. First, this is our home! We paid for this flat together, furnished it, chose every piece. Now I’m expected to leave because his relatives fancied a trip to the city? Second, why didn’t he bother asking me? I might’ve helped if we’d discussed it properly, but no—he just decided for me. Emily, for her part, didn’t even apologise. Just smiled and said, “Oh, Charlotte, don’t fret! We’ll only be here a fortnight!” A fortnight? I wouldn’t want strangers touching my things for two days!
Oliver was worse—sat on our sofa, sipping tea from my favourite mug, nodding along like a silent accomplice. And their kids? Lily, six, had already spilled juice on the rug, while four-year-old Noah treated my wardrobe like a hide-and-seek nook. When I hinted this wasn’t a hotel, Emily just waved me off: “Oh, they’re just kids—what can you do?” Right, so I’m meant to clean up after them, am I?
I tried talking to Simon alone. Told him how hurt I was that he’d made such a decision without me. Explained that Daniel needs stability—his own bed, his own space. Dragging a three-year-old to my mum’s to sleep on a camp bed isn’t fair. But Simon just shrugged: “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, Charlotte. Family helps family.” Family? So Daniel and I aren’t family? I was so furious I nearly cried. Instead, I started packing. If he thinks I’ll stay quiet and put up with this, he’s sorely mistaken.
Mum was livid when I told her. “Since when does Simon decide who lives in your home?” she fumed over the phone. “Come straight here, love. We’ll sort this out.” She’s a force of nature—ready to march over and toss them out herself. But I’m not after a scene. I just want my boy comfortable and time to think.
As I zipped up Daniel’s little suitcase, he looked up with those big eyes and asked, “Mummy, are we staying at Grandma’s long?” I hugged him tight. “Not long, sweetheart. Just a little while.” But truthfully, I won’t step foot back home until I know it’s ours again—not some free B&B for Simon’s relatives. And he’d better decide what matters more: his “hospitality” or his own family.
Lesson learned: A home isn’t just walls—it’s respect. And if yours doesn’t include it, you’re better off elsewhere.
