**Relatives Overstaying Their Welcome: How My Politeness Led to a Scene**
Sometimes a kind heart isn’t a blessing but a curse—especially when dealing with “family” who treat your conscience like a free holiday lodge.
I’ve never been one for conflict. I hate arguments, struggle to say no, and bend over backwards to keep everyone happy—especially relatives, even the distant ones. But as the saying goes, “blood’s thicker than water,” so you put up with it.
They live in a village near Leeds. Once the harvest season ends, the whole lot of them pile into the city like clockwork. And by some unspoken agreement, my flat is always their designated crash pad. Other relatives might get a quick cuppa, but when it comes to overnight stays, it’s always me. Every. Single. Time.
I bore it in silence. Told myself, *It’s just a few days.* Then back to work, peace, and routine.
But this year, they outdid themselves.
One fine June afternoon, they showed up—for *three bloody months.*
“We’re not in your way, are we?” Uncle laughed cheerfully, hauling two stuffed duffels and a rolled-up mattress through the door.
“What about the allotment?” I ventured carefully.
“Eh, we’ll manage without it. Fancy a change of scenery—city air’s good for the lungs. And the kids can play with yours,” Aunt chirped, not even bothering to kick off her muddy wellies.
Like I was some sort of free bed-and-breakfast—no charge, full board, and expected to be grateful for the privilege.
A week would’ve been bad enough. But *three months*?
Meanwhile, Pete and I had a proper holiday planned. Cornwall, quiet beaches, sunshine. Everything booked, bags half-packed.
When I gently hinted we’d be leaving soon and maybe they should think about heading home, all hell broke loose.
“Selfish cow, you are, Debbie!” Uncle bellowed. “Only care about yourself! We’ve not even been to the park yet, haven’t done half what we planned, and you’re chucking us out? Could’ve shifted your holiday to autumn, couldn’t you?”
Aunt huffed, slamming cupboard doors in the kitchen. The kids whined. The flat went heavy with tension, like before a storm. But I knew—if I didn’t stand my ground now, they’d be roasting their Christmas turkey here too.
“Sorry, but we *are* going,” I said firmly. “You’re adults. You’ll cope.”
Silence. Then came the dramatic flurry of packing—angry dishwashing, pointed whispers. On their way out, they raided the fridge, taking half the groceries.
“Some host you turned out to be,” Aunt muttered, not meeting my eyes.
The door slammed. And then—quiet. Glorious, uninterrupted quiet. I collapsed onto the sofa, hugged a cushion, and breathed properly for the first time in weeks.
Yes, I feel rotten about it. I never wanted a row. Never meant to hurt anyone. But where was the line? At what point did my politeness stop being kindness and start being a doormat?
Here’s what I’ve learned: help when you can. Welcome them if you want. But never let them mistake your kindness for weakness.
