Saturday. Seven in the morning. That one day in two whole weeks I could finally sleep in, snuggle under the duvet, and not hear the screech of an alarm. But my plans were shattered by the slam of the front door—my mother-in-law barged into our flat looking absurdly triumphant. And she wasn’t alone. She’d brought along her niece and nephew, the kids of her youngest daughter, Poppy.
I was still half-asleep in bed when I heard them shrieking and thundering down the hallway. Instant panic set in. What on earth was happening? Why were they here? My mother-in-law just waltzed into the bedroom like it was nothing, all sugar-sweet smiles, cooing, “Morning, love! I’ll pop the kettle on for you.”
If I didn’t know her, I might’ve thought she’d suddenly developed a soft spot for me. But after ten years of Marjorie Wilkins, I knew better. She wanted something. And that something always turned into my problem.
We shuffled into the kitchen. I was barely awake when the kettle started hissing, and those two little terrors began their demolition act. Within minutes, they’d smashed my favourite porcelain vase—the one my late nan gave me. They tried hiding the pieces behind the dresser, as if I wouldn’t notice. I was on my knees sweeping up the mess when some bloke walked in unannounced, hauling a bunk bed.
“Excuse me, where d’you think you’re putting that?” I asked, clutching the dustpan like a weapon.
“Well, obviously, in the spare room,” Marjorie said, eyebrows arched. “We’re leaving the kids with you.”
“Leaving them—what?”
“Poppy’s been hospitalised. I can’t manage them alone,” she sighed, all theatrical sadness.
“Hospitalised? Where—in Spain?” I shot back. “Maybe I should check myself in there too, yeah?”
Marjorie’s face darkened.
“Who told you—?”
I grabbed my phone, pulling up Poppy’s Instagram. “Look. Bikini selfie, cocktail in hand, beachfront view—proper hospital, that. Must be a new treatment—sun, sand, and sangria?”
She hissed like a kettle but quickly composed herself. “Alright, fine, but we’re family! You have to help!”
“Have to? Since when? For years, I’ve been ‘not good enough for our Alfie,’ ‘not our sort.’ Now suddenly I’m family? And Poppy’s treated me like hired help her whole life—no respect, no thanks. Her kids are just as rude. And now I’m supposed to drop everything, wreck my health, and play nanny for two weeks?”
“Love… just be reasonable,” Alfie muttered from the corner, like a scolded schoolboy.
“No, Alfie. Not ‘love.’ Not a nanny. And not a fool. I’ve asked you all—if you need help, ask. Don’t ambush me. This is manipulation. And I’m done playing along. Take the kids, take the bed, and get out. Now.”
Cue the waterworks from the kids, Marjorie’s dramatic huffing—but I was past caring. This wasn’t the first time they’d dumped their mess on me. But it was the first time I said no.
They left. Slammed doors, shouted guilt trips. Alfie went with them.
Two hours later, my phone buzzed.
“I’m done. You’re impossible. We’re getting a divorce.”
Just like that. One day. One boundary I finally dared to set—and my marriage was over.
And y’know what? I don’t regret a thing.
Because if my husband cared more about his mum’s lies than me, if he couldn’t stand up for his wife or ever question his sister’s golden-child act—then he wasn’t a husband. Just an extra in their little drama where I never had a proper role.
Now? I’m free. Yeah, it’ll hurt at first. But at least no one’s banging on my door at 7 AM with someone else’s kids and a bunk bed in tow.
