Well, what do you think? My mother-in-law, Margaret, had her relatives turn up two weeks before Easter, and by the looks of it, they’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon.
Honestly, I, Claire, don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These guests are quite the surprise package, and they’ve apparently decided our house is now their personal bed and breakfast. And Margaret, instead of reining them in, just nods along and keeps them fed with endless scones and pudding. Don’t even get me started on my husband, William, who’s pretending the whole thing isn’t his problem. So I thought I’d share this with you—because I’m genuinely curious whose patience will snap first—mine or theirs.
It all began one morning when I woke up to a racket in the kitchen. For a second, I thought maybe William was trying to surprise me with breakfast. As if! I walked in to find an entire delegation—Auntie Beatrice, her husband Nigel, and their daughter Emily—all from some tiny village where, by the sound of it, life moves slower than a Sunday roast. They’d come “for Easter,” though they seemed to believe the holiday starts a fortnight early. Margaret, grinning like the cat that got the cream, was already at the stove, whipping up a full English. “Claire, love, it’s family!” she chirped. “We must be hospitable!” Meanwhile, I counted the suitcases in the hallway and knew—this was going to be a long haul.
Auntie Beatrice has a voice that carries like a foghorn. The moment she stepped inside, she started on about how expensive everything is back home, while our place was “posh as London.” Then she commenced a full inspection. “Oh, Claire, why are your curtains so dusty? And what’s this stain on the rug?” she asked, rummaging through the linen cupboard as if grading my folding skills. I bit my tongue but was seething inside. Nigel, her husband, was the opposite—silent as a wooden chair. He parked himself in the living room, glued to the telly, occasionally grunting, “Put on the fishing channel.” And Emily, their twenty-year-old, lived on her phone while somehow eating us out of house and home just the same. Once I caught her finishing my favourite yoghurt. “Oh, I thought it was for everyone!” she said. Well, it was—just not for *you*, Emily.
Instead of hinting that they might’ve overstayed their welcome, Margaret only fans the flames. She cooks like it’s Christmas every day—roasts, pies, trifles—and of course, the relatives are delighted. “Oh, Maggie, you’re a saint!” coos Auntie Beatrice, already asking for seconds. I tried to suggest maybe not spoiling them quite so much, but Margaret just gasped. “Claire, how can you say that? They visit once in a blue moon!” Right. And by the looks of it, they’re planning to stay until the next one.
William, my husband, is the reigning champion of neutrality in all this. “Will, talk to your mum—get her to nudge them along,” I said. He just shrugged. “Claire, they’re guests. Let it be.” Guests? This isn’t a visit; it’s a hostile takeover! I can’t even use the bathroom without scheduling it around Emily’s marathon selfie sessions. And yesterday, Auntie Beatrice “helped” by scrubbing my favourite frying pan so hard nothing sticks anymore. “Thought it needed a proper clean!” she said. Well, it’s clean enough for the bin now.
The worst part? They’re making plans. Auntie Beatrice announced she’d stay through May bank holiday to “see how you lot do your barbecues.” Nigel’s dreaming of a fishing trip with William, and Emily keeps begging for a shopping trip because their village has “no proper clothes.” Meanwhile, I’m sat here wondering—when will they *leave*? More importantly, how do I survive till then without losing my mind?
I’ve started strategising. Maybe I’ll claim we’re renovating. Or say we’re off on holiday. But Margaret seems thrilled by the whole invasion. Yesterday, she suggested hosting a massive Easter lunch and inviting the neighbours. “Let everyone see what a close family we are!” Close? I’ve never felt more like a stranger in my own home.
The only thing keeping me sane is my sense of humour. At night, once everyone’s in bed, I pour myself a cuppa and imagine writing a book: *How to Survive a Relative Invasion*. Chapters would include *Hiding the Good Biscuits*, *Smiling While Screaming Inside*, and *Not Throttling Your Mother-in-Law Over Tea and Sympathy*.
But seriously, I know this won’t last. They’ll go, and the house will be ours again. Till then, I’m counting down to Easter and praying Auntie Beatrice doesn’t decide to summer here.
Anyone else got relatives like this? And how do you cope? Because I’m hanging by a thread—but I won’t give in. Maybe by Easter, I’ll be a zen master. Or at least learn to stash yoghurts where Emily can’t find them.
*Lesson learned: Hospitality has limits. And so does my patience.*
