Family Visits: How My Politeness Led to a Scandal
Sometimes a kind heart isn’t a blessing but a proper trap. Especially when you’re dealing with “loved ones” who treat your conscience like a free holiday home.
I’ve always been the sort who avoids conflict. Never one for rows, useless at saying no, and eager to please—especially with family. Even though most of them aren’t particularly close. But as they say, “blood’s thicker than water.”
They live in a village near York. Once the summer chores are done, the whole lot of them descend upon the city. And as if by some unspoken rule, my flat becomes their annual holiday spot. Other relatives get a quick cuppa, but it’s always my place where they stay. Every time.
I put up with it. Said nothing. Told myself—what’s a couple of days? Then back to work, peace, and my own routine.
But this year, they completely blindsided me.
One fine June morning, they showed up—for three whole months.
“We’re not in the way, are we?” Uncle Tony laughed as he hauled two stuffed duffel bags and a rolled-up mattress into the hallway.
“What about the allotment?” I asked carefully.
“Plenty of time for that. We fancied a bit of city air. A break from the countryside. And it’ll be nice for your kids to play with ours,” Auntie Margo added, not even bothering to take her shoes off.
As if I were some weekend B&B—except without payment, plus free meals and a warm welcome.
A week, fine. But three months?
And here’s the thing—my husband and I had a holiday booked. Beach, quiet, sunshine. Everything was arranged, suitcases packed.
When I gently hinted we’d be leaving soon and maybe they ought to start thinking about heading home, all hell broke loose.
“Selfish, that’s what you are, Nina!” Uncle Tony shouted. “Only think about yourself. We haven’t even been to the park yet, haven’t done half the things we planned, and now you’re kicking us out? You could’ve moved your holiday—autumn, maybe!”
Auntie Margo scowled and stomped into the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors. The kids started whining. The whole flat felt like the calm before a storm. But I knew—if I stayed quiet now, they’d be here for Christmas.
“Sorry, but we’re going,” I said firmly. “You’re adults. You’ll manage.”
Silence first. Then came the sulky bustle: packing bags, washing up with exaggerated irritation, loud whispering. On their way out, they helped themselves to half the food in the fridge.
“Some hospitality,” Auntie Margo muttered without looking back.
The door slammed. And then—quiet. Glorious, blissful quiet. I sank onto the sofa, hugged a cushion, and breathed properly for the first time in weeks.
Yes, this whole mess left me uneasy. I never wanted a row. Never meant to hurt anyone. But where was the line? When did my politeness stop being kindness and start being a burden?
Now I know for sure: helping—fine. Hosting—also fine. But letting anyone take the mick? Never again.
