“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Brazen Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The door buzzer didn’t just ring—it howled, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. on a Saturday. The only morning I’d planned to sleep in after closing the quarterly accounts, not play hostess. My sister-in-law Sarah’s face flashed on the entry screen, looking ready to storm Parliament rather than visit family, with three scruffy-haired kids bristling at her side. “Ian!” I barked without picking up. “Your lot. Sort it out.” He tumbled out of bed, pulling on shorts backwards, knowing from my tone that my patience with his family had expired. As he stumbled over some excuse into the intercom, I stood braced in the hallway, arms crossed. My flat—my rules. I’d bought this three-bed in Central London two years before the wedding, sweating over every mortgage payment. Seeing interlopers ruin it was the last thing I wanted. The door flung open, and a caravan poured into my pristine, scented hallway. Sarah, laden with bags, didn’t bother with a greeting—just shunted me aside like a coat rack. “Oh, thank god we made it!” she puffed, dumping her bags onto the designer tiling. “Alison, are you rooted to the spot? Stick the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Sarah,” my voice was level, though Ian shrank beside me, knowing what was coming. “What’s going on?” “Ian didn’t explain?”—she widened her eyes, all innocence—“Our place is being gutted—plumbing, floors—the dust is unbearable. We’re just crashing here for a week. Loads of room in all these empty square metres, right?” I shot Ian a look; he did a thorough inspection of the ceiling instead of answering. “A week,” I declared. “Seven days, not more. You sort your own food. Kids don’t run around, don’t touch the walls, my office is out of bounds, and I want silence after ten.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “God, Alison, you’re such a warden. All right, deal. Where are we sleeping? Not on the floor, I hope?” And so the nightmare began. A “week” became two, then three. My designer flat was morphing into a pigsty: a heap of muddy shoes in the hallway, sticky puddles and greasy splatters in my shiny kitchen, and Sarah reigning not as guest but queen. “Nothing to eat, Alison?” she whined one evening, surveying the empty fridge. “The kids need yoghurt, and Ian and I fancy some proper meat. Surely you can look after family with your income.” “You’ve got a bank card, you know where Tesco is,” I replied, not looking up from my laptop. “Sainsbury’s delivers 24/7.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge hard enough to rattle jars. “You can’t take money with you when you go, remember that.” But the last straw was still to come. One evening, arriving home early, I found my nephew bouncing on my thousand-quid orthopaedic mattress, while Sarah’s youngest daughter was busy turning my bedroom wall into a lipstick mural. With my Tom Ford. Limited edition. “OUT!” I roared—and the children scattered. Sarah burst in, surveyed the damage, and clapped her hands dismissively. “Why are you fussing? They’re just kids! It’s only a scribble. You’ll wash it off. And your lipstick—what is it, painted lard? Just buy another! Actually, we’ve been thinking. Builders are useless, so we’ll stay until the summer. You two must get lonely, don’t you? It’s much livelier with us!” Ian stayed silent. Spineless. I needed air to keep from committing a crime. Later, when Sarah went for a shower, she’d left her phone on the kitchen table. I’m no snoop, but a message popped up loud and clear from “Mandy Lettings”: “Sarah, sent the rent for next month. Tenants are happy, can they extend until August?” Followed by a bank notification: “£800 received.” Suddenly, it all clicked. No renovations, just a cheeky scheme—Sarah had sublet her own flat short-term and come here to freeload off me, pocketing the profits and letting me bankroll her family and her savings. My hands were steady, colder than calm. I took a photo of her screen. “Ian, come to the kitchen.” He paled after reading the message. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” he tried. “No, the only mistake is you still haven’t kicked them out,” I said. “You have a choice: by tomorrow lunchtime, either your family is gone or you all are. You, your mummy, your darling sister, and the whole circus.” “But where will they go?” “I don’t care. Under a bridge or to The Ritz—if their rental money stretches that far.” The next morning, Sarah cheerily announced she’d be “popping to Selfridges for some lovely boots,” leaving the kids with Ian. I waited for the door to shut behind her. “Ian, take the kids out—to the park. For a long time.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the flat.” As soon as the lift doors closed behind them, I called the locksmith, and then our local police support officer. Hospitality was over. It was eviction day. Yesterday’s “maybe it’s a mistake?” echoed in my ears as the locksmith swapped the lock for a brute of a security mechanism. “No one’s getting in without a grinder now, love,” he approved. “Perfect. That’s what I want.” Generous tip, the price of a decent dinner out, but peace was priceless. Then I started gathering stuff. Black bin bags—industrial-sized, 120 litres. I scooped up everything: Sarah’s bras, kids’ tights, toys, make-up spilling off my bathroom shelves. No folded piles, just shovelled in. In 40 minutes, a mountain of bags stood outside my front door. Two battered suitcases joined. The police officer, a tired-looking young man, arrived just as I finished. “Good morning, officer,” I handed him my ID and flat ownership papers. “I’m the sole owner and resident. Some people are about to try to get in—relatives with no tenancy or legal claim. Please record any attempted break-in.” “Relatives?” “Ex-relatives,” I grinned. “We have a family property dispute. It’s just got spicy.” Sarah arrived an hour later, radiant with Selfridges bags. Her smile vanished at the sight of the bin-bag pile and police escort. “What’s this? Alison, are you mental? These are my things!” “Exactly. Your things. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She lunged for the door but the officer blocked her. “Do you live here? Registered resident?” “I’m—Ian’s sister! We’re guests!” she turned to me, face flushed. “Where’s Ian? I’ll call him—just you wait!” “Go ahead. He won’t answer. He’s explaining to your kids why their mum’s so entrepreneurial.” No answer from Ian. Maybe finally he’d grown a spine—or was just scared about losing his share of the flat in a divorce he’d never win. “You can’t do this!” Sarah shrieked, dumping her new shoes on the ground. “We have nowhere to go! What about my kids?” “Stop lying. Say hi to Mandy from Lettings. See if the tenants want to stay till August or if you’ll need to kick them out.” Sarah’s face drained of colour. “How did you—?” “Next time, lock your phone, boss lady. You squatted here for a month on my food and wrecked my home while letting your own out for profit. Well done—very enterprising. But here’s my advice: take your stuff and leave. If you or your brood come within a mile of my flat again, I’ll notify HMRC about your little untaxed rental empire. And the police, too—my gold ring’s gone missing and you’d be amazed what they might find if they search those bags.” The ring, of course, was locked in my safe—but she didn’t know that. Sarah went ashen, foundation masking her panic. “You’re a cow, Alison,” she spat. “God will judge you.” “God’s busy,” I snapped. “But I’m free. And so is my flat.” She staggered off, cursing and fumbling for a taxi, while the officer watched with mild amusement. When the lift swallowed her, her bags, and her big scheme, I turned to the officer. “Thanks for your help.” “Always here—though a strong lock is your best bet next time.” I closed the door. The new lock clicked—loud, secure, satisfying. The flat, now fresh and quiet, carried the citrus tang of professional cleaning. Ian returned two hours later—alone. He’d handed the kids off to Sarah outside, who was still struggling with her luggage and her pride. “She’s gone,” he muttered. “I know.” “She was shouting all sorts about you—” “I don’t care what rats scream as they’re chucked off a ship.” I sat back in my spotless kitchen, sipping fresh coffee from my favourite, unbroken cup. The fridge held only my food. No lipstick drawings left—just clean walls. “Did you know she was letting her flat?” I asked, not looking at him. “No! Honestly, Alison! If I had—” “If you had, you wouldn’t have told me. Listen: this is your one and only warning. Next time your family tries anything, your suitcases will be outside with theirs. Got it?” He nodded, anxious and wary. He knew I meant it. I took a long sip of coffee. Hot, strong, and above all, drunk in perfect silence, in my own home. My crown felt just right.

Well stay here until summer!: how I sent my husbands cheeky family packing and changed the locks.

The intercom didnt just buzzit howled for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m., Saturday morning. The one day when Id planned to sleep in, finally recover after slogging through the year-end reports. I certainly hadnt expected visitors. On the little screen, the face of my sister-in-law appeared. Sarah, my husband Edwards sister, looked as though she was about to storm the Tower of London, with three ruffled-haired children clustered behind her.

Edward! I called out, not bothering to pick up the receiver. Your family. Go and sort it out.

He shuffled out from the bedroom, yanking on his shorts backwards. Edward knew well enough: when I spoke in that tone, it meant my patience for his side of the family had run dry. While he mumbled something into the intercom, I folded my arms in the hallway. My flat, my rules. Id scrimped and saved every penny to buy this three-bedroom in the heart of Londonthree years hard-won mortgage payments before marriageand the last thing I wanted was uninvited guests.

The door flung open, and my pristine corridor, scented faintly of White Company candles, was suddenly awash with luggage and coats. Sarah, heavily laden with bags, didnt even greet me. She simply nudged me aside with her hip, as if I were a piece of old furniture.

Oh, thank heavens, we made it! she sighed, dumping bags all over the expensive Italian tiles. Emily, why are you standing in the doorway? Put the kettle onthe children are famished after all that travel.

Sarah, my voice was measured, but Edward shrank into his shoulders. What on earth is going on?

Didnt Edward say? She widened her eyes, playing the portrait of innocence. Were having renovations done! Complete gut job. The pipes are being replaced, the floors are up, you can hardly breathe for the dust. Well just stay with you for a week or sotheres plenty of space, isnt there? Surely you wont mind.

I glared at Edward, who was now finding the ceiling fascinating. He knew he was for it later.

Edward?

Look, Em, its just my sister and her lot cant live in that building dust, can they? Its only for a week.

A week, I said, crisp and clear. Seven days, no more. You bring your own food. No children running wild round the flat, no touching the walls, and my study is strictly off-limitsdont even come within a yard of the door. I want complete silence after ten p.m.

Sarah puffed out her cheeks, rolling her eyes to the heavens. Goodness, you are strict, Emily. Like a prison warder. Fine, agreed. Where are we sleeping? Hope its not on the floor?

And so began the ordeal.

That week stretched into two. Then three. My flat, normally pristine thanks to hours spent with a designer, morphed into a pigsty. In the entrance, there was always a mountain of muddy shoes I was forever tripping over. The kitchen became a disaster zonegreasy rings staining the countertops, sticky puddles, and crumbs everywhere. Sarah swanned about as though she owned the place, treating me like a paid help.

Emily, whys the fridge so empty? she declared one evening, rummaging through the shelves. The kids need yoghurts, and Edward and I wouldnt mind some proper meat. You earn quite handsomely, dont you? Could make an effort for the family.

Youve got your card, there are shops, I replied, eyes glued to my work emails. Theres even a 24-hour delivery service.

Stingy, she muttered, slamming the fridge door so hard the jars rattled. You cant take it with you when you go, remember that.

But the real breaking point came later. Coming home earlier than usual one evening, I found my nieces and nephew in my bedroom. The eldest was jumping on my new beda king-sized frame with an orthopedic mattress that cost as much as a small carand the youngest The youngest was happily drawing on the wall. With my lipstick. Tom Ford. Limited edition.

Out! I roared, so fiercely the children scattered like pigeons.

Sarah rushed in at the noise. Seeing the crayon-covered wall and ruined lipstick, she merely waved her hands. Whats the fuss? Theyre just children! Its only a line on the wall. Youll scrub it off. As for the lipstick, its just fancy waxyou can buy yourself another, you wont be out of pocket. Weve had a rethink, by the way. The renovations taking longerbuilders are hopeless, never turn up. So well stay through till summer. You and Edward wont be lonely, and well bring a bit of life to this place!

Edward stood by in silence. Utterly useless.

I said nothing. I retreated to the bathroom to calm down before I did something Id regret.

Later that evening, Sarah went for a shower, tossing her phone on the kitchen counter. The screen lit up with a notification. I dont make a habit of checking other peoples messages, but this one flashed big across the locked screen. A chat from Marina Lettings:
Sarah, sent next months payment. Tenants are happy, asked if they can stay until August?
A second message: Your account balance has increased by £800.

Something in me snapped. In a blink, all the pieces fitted together. There was no flat renovation. The audacious sponge was letting out her own place, pocketing the rent month by month, and bunking with me to save on groceries, bills, while earning easy moneyher own clever little business plan. At my expense.

I snapped a quick photo of the screenmy hands were steady, almost icy-cold from the fury and resolve washing over me.

Edward, come here a minute.

He shuffled into the kitchen, and I silently handed him my phone. He read through itblushed, then turned pale.

Em, surely its just a mix-up?

The only mistake is that you havent thrown them out yet, I said calmly. Youve got a choiceeither theyre gone by lunchtime tomorrow, or by tomorrow neither are you. You, your mother, your delightful sister, and the whole circus.

But where will they go?

I couldnt care less. Under a bridge, or the Ritz, if she can afford it.

In the morning, Sarah breezed into the kitchen, chattering about adorable boots shed spotted in town, no doubt with her rental money. She blithely left the children with Edward, who had taken the day off.

I waited for her to close the door behind her.

Edward, take the children out to the park. Be gone a while.

Why?

Because Im about to deal with an infestation.

Once they were gone, I picked up the phone. First, I called a locksmith. Second, I rang the local police. Hospitality hour was over. I was reclaiming my territory.

Maybe its a mistake, Edward’s words from last night echoed as I watched the locksmith unscrew the old lock.
No mistakejust cold, hard calculation.

The locksmith, a burly fellow with a tattoo on his forearm, worked quickly.
Solid door, he remarked. But that lock will keep even the most determined out.
Exactly what I want. Security.

I transferred him a feeenough for a good meal out at Hawksmoor, but peace of mind is priceless. Then I got to work on their things. No sentimentality. I stuffed everything into the heaviest refuse sacks I could findSarahs bras, the childrens tights, toys flung around the lounge. Not folded, not treated kindlyI crammed it in. All her cosmetics shed cluttered the bathroom shelf with, I swept into a bag in one go.

Forty minutes later, there was a mountain of five black sacks on the landing, with two suitcases beside them.

Just as the lift doors pinged, the police community officer arrivedI was by the front door with my folder of documents.

Morning, officer, I said, handing over the land registry printout and my passport.
Im the sole owner and the only one on the tenancy. There are people who may try to force entryplease record any attempted trespass.

He, a young man with tired eyes, flicked through my paperwork.
Relatives?

Not anymore, I smiled. Were in the heat of a property dispute.

Sarah appeared an hour later, beaming with shopping bags from Liberty, her face falling as she saw the mountain of rubbish sacks and me on the threshold, flanked by a police officer.

Whats this? she shrieked, jabbing a finger at the bags. Emily, have you lost your mind? This is my stuff!

Precisely, I replied, arms crossed. Take it and go. The hotel is closed.

She made a dash for the door, but the officer blocked her.

Maam, do you live here? Are you on the tenancy?

I Im his sister! Were guests! She turned to me, her face red and blotchy. What do you think youre doing, you cow? Wheres Edward? Ill ring him right now, and hell see you right!

Call him, by all means, I replied. But he wont answer. Hes busy explaining to your children why youre so enterprising.

Sarah called him. Long rings. Hang up. Again. Edward, it seemed, had finally grown a spineor perhaps realised hed lose everything in the divorce.

You have no right! Sarah yelled, flinging her new shoes at the wall. Weve got nowhere to go, Emily! What about the kids?

Dont lie, I took a step closer, staring her dead in the eye. Give Marina my regards. And ask if shell extend the let on your flat till August, or will you kick the tenants out and move home?

Sarah stood still, mouth open, the colour draining sharply from her face.

How did you?

You should lock your phone, business tycoon. You lived off me for a month, ate my food, wrecked my décor, and rented out your place to save for a car? Clever. But now, listen here.

My voice dropped, as cutting as a whiplash in the echoing corridor.

Now, you take those bags and leave. If you, or your children, come within a mile of my home againIll report you for tax evasion, subletting without a contract. Theyll love that. And if anything of mine is missing, like, say, a gold ringIll say I suspect its in one of those bags, and let the police search them.

The ring, naturally, was safely stowed in my safe. Sarah didnt know that. She grew so pale, her foundation looked like a mask.

You utter witch, Emily, she hissed. May God judge you.

Gods busy, I said. But Im free. And so is my flat.

She gathered her bags, muttering curses, hands shaking as she called for a cab. The officer watched on, only too pleased that he wouldnt need to file a report.

When the lift doors slid shut, carrying Sarah, her bags, and her crumbling schemes, I smiled at the policeman.

Thank you for your service.

No troublejust get a decent lock, alright? he said with a wink.

I went back inside and closed the door. The new lock clicked with a satisfyingly rich sound. The flat was filled with the sharp scent of bleachthe cleaners had finished the kitchen and moved on to my bedroom.

Edward came home two hours later. Alone. Hed delivered the children to Sarah as she loaded her bags into a taxi. He looked around, as if half-expecting to be ambushed.

Em shes gone.

I know.

She was shouting all sorts

I dont care what rats shriek as theyre booted off the ship.

I sat in the kitchen, sipping freshly-brewed coffee from my favourite, unbroken mug. The lipstick stains on the wall were gone, scrubbed away. The fridge contained only my own food.

Did you know about the letting? I asked quietly, not looking up.

No! Honestly, Em. If Id known

If youd known, youd have kept quiet, I finished. Listen: this was the last time. One more trick from your family, and your suitcases will be stacked outside with theirs. Is that clear?

He nodded, hurried and fearful. He knew I meant it.

I took a sip of coffee.

It tasted perfect.

Hot, strong, and, most importantly, savoured in the absolute peace of my own home.
My crown didnt slip.

It fitted just right.