‘We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!’: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it wailed, demanding attention. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, the one day I’d hoped to sleep in after a hellish quarterly report, not play hostess. On the screen: my sister-in-law’s face, charging in like she was storming the Tower of London, three wild-haired children in tow. “Igor!” I shouted through gritted teeth. “Your relatives—your problem.” He stumbled out, pulling his shorts on backwards, fully aware that my patience for his family was buried deeper than the Tube. I’d sweat blood to buy this three-bed in central London before we even got married—my rules, my home, absolutely no squatters. Yet in barged Svetlana, shoving me aside as if I were a hatstand, dumping her bags onto my Italian stone tiles. “Thank goodness, we made it!” she announced, ordering me to get the kettle on as if this were her own manor. “It’s just for a week,” she said, explaining how their flat’s ‘full refurb’ left them homeless—cue wide-eyed innocence. “Seven days,” I snapped, setting strict house rules. Svetlana rolled her eyes—the hospitality was lost on her. One week turned to two, then three. My designer flat descended into chaos: dirty shoes everywhere, sticky counters, and Svetlana acting like Lady of the Manor. She even had the nerve, one night, to sneer, “Can’t you fill the fridge? You earn well enough—surely you can look after family?” But the final straw came when I caught her children bouncing on my orthopaedic mattress (priced like a first-class ticket), my limited-edition Tom Ford lipstick smeared across my bedroom wall. Svetlana waltzed in, shrugging, “They’re just kids! The lipstick? Oh, buy another. We’ll be here till summer, by the way—the builders are drunks. Bit of fun for you, isn’t it?” I left before I did something criminal. But then her phone flashed with a message: “Svetlana, I’ve sent next month’s rent. Tenants are happy to stay till August. +£800 to your account.” It clicked—there was no renovation. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her tribe in with me, soaking up free food and bills, raking in passive income, all on my dime. Genius—if you’re shameless. I snapped a photo of her phone and showed my husband. “Either she’s gone by lunchtime, or you’re both out. Your choice.” When Svetlana left ‘for shopping’ the next morning (presumably for luxury boots with her rent takings), I seized the moment—called a locksmith and the police. Forty minutes later, Svetlana returned from Harrods to find her things (stuffed in bin bags) by the lift and me standing firm at the door with a police officer. “Get your things. The hotel is closed,” I declared. She wailed. “My kids! My rights! I’ve nowhere to go!” I coolly replied: “Try your own flat—assuming your tenants don’t mind. If you step foot here again, I’ll report you to HMRC for undeclared rental income, and to the police for theft—a missing gold ring, perhaps?” Pale and defeated, she hauled her bags away, cursing me to kingdom come. Once the doors closed behind her, my husband returned—alone. “That was the last time,” I warned. “Next time your family pulls this, your suitcase will be right out there with theirs.” At last, I drank hot coffee in perfect silence in my own flat—renovated, peaceful, and finally, all mine. My crown didn’t slip—in fact, it fit perfectly.

Well stay here till summer! How I Evicted My Husbands Brazen Family and Changed the Locks

The intercom didnt simply ringit wailed, demanding to be heard. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the nearest clock: seven oclock on a Saturday morning. The only day Id planned a proper lie-in after closing the quarterly accounts, not for entertaining guests. On the tiny screen, my sister-in-laws face loomed. Pauline, my husband Edwards dear sister, wore the look of a woman gearing up to storm Buckingham Palace, three wild-haired children bobbing behind her like an odd, trailing chorus.

Edward! I shouted, not bothering to lift the receiver. Your familys here. This is your circus.

He staggered from the bedroom, shorts pulled on backwards in his haste. Even half-asleep, he recognised my tonethe sort reserved for moments when my patience for his relatives had slipped straight down the drain. As he mumbled into the receiver, I stood in the hallway, arms folded sternly. My flat, my rules. Id bought this three-bed in Central London two years before our registry office ceremony, paying off the mortgage with sweat and sleepless nights. The last thing I wanted was uninvited intruders.

The door burst open and with a crash of suitcases, Pauline breezed in, not a greeting in sight. She nudged past me as if I were an inconvenient lampstand.

Oh, thank heavens, finally! she huffed, tossing her bags directly onto my Italian tiles. Rachel, why are you blocking the doorway? Put the kettle on, love. The children are famished after that journey.

Pauline, I said, voice perfectly calm. Edward drew his head in like a startled tortoise. Whats going on?

Edward didnt tell you? Paulines eyes grew theatrically wide, switching instantly to her innocent cherub mode. Our place is a building site! Total renovationpipes ripped out, rewiring, the lot. You cant breathe for dust. Well just crash at yours for, what, a week? Loads of space here for us, and you two dont mind, surely?

I shot Edward a look. He studied the ceiling, knowing his reckoning was coming at sunset.

Edward? I prompted, dagger-sharp.

Rachel, honestly, its only for a week, he pleaded. Its hard for them at home, with the kids and all that dust. Just a week.

A week, I replied crisply. Seven days, no more. You sort your own food, children dont run riot, keep off the walls, my study is off-limits, and silence after ten.

Pauline rolled her eyes so forcefully I feared shed do herself an injury. Oh, isnt she a laugh, Edwardlike a Victorian headmistress. Fine, deal. Where are we sleeping? Please dont say the floor?

So, the torment began.

A week morphed into two, then three. My lovingly designed flat began to resemble a student digs. The hallway teemed with their muddy trainers; piles of laundry trip-wired me on my way to work. The kitchen transformed into a wasteland: greasy splodges on my stone worktops, toast crumbs, sticky puddles. Pauline commandeered the household as if she owned the deeds, treating me with the sort of disregard reserved for a surly maid.

Rachel, whys the fridge barren? she demanded one evening, scrutinising the empty shelves. Children need yoghurts. And Edward and I fancy a proper roast. You earn decent moneyyou could look after family, yknow.

Youve got a card and legs, I replied, not looking up from my laptop. Shops deliver all day, every day.

Tight-fisted, she muttered, slamming the fridge so hard the tins of beans rattled. Cant take it with you when you go, remember that.

But that wasnt the final straw. No, that broke when I came home early to find Paulines eldest bouncing gleefully on my orthopaedic mattress (which had cost as much as a second-hand Mini), while the youngest Well, she was doodling on the wall. With my Tom Ford lipstick. Limited edition, naturally.

OUT! I bellowed, so the children scattered like startled starlings.

Pauline stormed in to assess the carnage. Waving at the smeared wall and shattered lipstick, she only threw up her hands: Honestly, Rachel, no need to shout. Theyre kids. Its a line on the wall; wipe it off. The lipsticks just fancy greaseyoull buy more. Besides, our renovations dragging oncowboy builders! Looks like well be here till summer. Bit of fun for you both, anyway.

Edward stood mute at her side. Useless.

I said nothingjust retreated to the bathroom to avoid doing anything prosecutable. In the evening, Pauline popped off to shower, abandoning her phone on the kitchen table. The screen lit upa message from Margaret Lettings flashed in huge font: Pauline, transferred the rent for next month. Tenants pleasedasking to extend till August? Seconds later, the banking app chimed: Credit: £800.

Something clicked sharply inside me. The dream logic snapped into place: there was no renovation. Pauline had rented out her own cramped flat either short- or long-term, using my home as a freeloading base to maximise her profits. Free food, free bills, passive income. Utter geniusfor her.

I snapped a photo of the phone. My hands didnt shakeif anything, a cold, precise calm settled over me.

Edward, come into the kitchen, I called.

When he entered, I just showed him the picture wordlessly. He scanned it, face flushing then draining of colour.

Rachel maybe its a mistake?

Mistake is you not throwing them out yet, I said, voice like steel. Youve got a choice. By lunchtime tomorrow, theyre out. Or you are. All of you, your entire travelling circus.

But where will they go?

I dont care. Under a bridge, the Savoyif shes saved enough.

Pauline announced at breakfast that she was off shoppinghad her eye on some marvellous wellies (clearly funded by her scam). The children she left with Edward, who had managed to wangle a day off.

I waited for the door to close behind her.

Edward, take the children to the park. Long walk, please.

Why?

Because Im about to fumigate this place for parasites.

As soon as they left, I got on the phone: first, a locksmith; second, the local bobby.

The hospitality games were over. It was time to reclaim my territory.

Mistake, was it? echoed in my head as the locksmitha burly bloke with faded tattoosswiftly changed the lock cylinder.

Decent door, he nodded approvingly. But this locks a beast. Not getting in without power tools.

Thats what I need. Security. I wired him enough for a fair dinner out, but the serenity was worth every penny. Then I tackled their stuff. No sentimental packing. I took tough, builder-sized bin bags and rammed everything inPaulines bras, kids bits, teddies, scattered all over my lounge. Her cosmetics, monopolising my bathroom shelf, went straight in with a single sweep.

Within forty minutes, five bulging black sacks lined the communal landing, flanked by two lopsided suitcases.

When the lift pinged and the constable arrived, I was ready at the door, folder of paperwork in hand.

Good morning, officer, I said, offering my Land Registry printout and passport. Im the owner; I live here alone. Anyone else has no right of residenceplease record attempted trespass.

He leafed through the documents, barely stifling a yawn.

Relatives?

Ex, I smiled. Our domestic arrangement is at an advanced stage.

Pauline breezed in an hour later, arms overloaded with shopping bags from Harrods, beaming. The smile fell from her face at the mountain of bin bags and me, flanked by the constable.

Whats all this? she screeched, jabbing a finger at her property. Rachel, have you completely lost your mind? Those are my things!

Correct, I said, folding my arms. Your things. Collect them and go. Hotels closed.

She tried to shoulder past, but the policeman blocked her.

Miss, do you live here? Got proof of address?

Im Im the husbands sister! We were just visiting! Her face mottled with red. Rachel, you cow, what are you doing? Wheres Edward? I need to call himhe wont let this stand!

Call him, I authorised, but he wont answer. Hes busy explaining to your offspring why their mum is so enterprising.

She rang. Rings, ring, ring Nothing. Edward, it seemed, had at last evolved a backboneor just realised hed get nothing in a split.

You have no right! Pauline shrieked, dumping her bags in a huff. A pair of expensive shoes tumbled out. Weve nowhere to go! Were in the middle of renovations! There are children!

Dont lie, I stepped forward, fixing her with a stare. Send my regards to Margaret. Ask if your tenants will extend through August, or if youll need your own place back soon.

Paulines mouth hung open, air hissing out as if shed been punctured.

You how did you?

Maybe lock your phone screen next time, business mogul. You lived off me for a month, gorged on my groceries, trashed my décor, and rented out your own flat to save up for a car? Clever you. Now pay attention.

I dropped my voice to a hiss, every word slicing the corridor.

You take these sacks and you disappear. If I see you, or any of your kin, within shouting distance of my building, Ill let the taxman know about your rental income. And file a theft report over a missing gold ring. You know where itll be found? In one of these black bags, if the police feel nosy.

(The ring, naturally, was in my safe. But Pauline didnt know that.) Her face drained so the foundation became a mask.

You you viper, Rachel, she spat. God will judge you.

Gods busy, I said coolly. I have time. And, finally, space.

She hauled the bags, cursing under her breath, thumbing for a taxi with trembling hands. The constable watched, quietly relieved hed dodged paperwork.

When the lift closed at lastPauline, her sacks, and delusions insideI turned to the police officer.

Thank you for your help.

Call again if they try anything, he said wryly. Though Id recommend good locks.

I slipped back into my flat and closed the door. The new lock clunked, secure and gloriously final. A blast of bleach told me the cleaning crew had finished the kitchen and moved to the bedroom.

Edward returned some hours lateralone. Hed handed the children back to Pauline as she clambered red-faced into her Uber. He hovered, as if braced for a booby trap.

Rachel shes gone.

I know.

She was saying dreadful things about you downstairs

I dont care what rats squeal when thrown from a ship.

I sat in my kitchen, sipping fresh coffee from my beloved, unchipped mug. No drawings on the wall nowthe cleaners had banished every trace. My groceries alone filled the fridge.

Did you know about the rental? I asked, eyes fixed on my coffee.

No! Cross my heart, Rachel! If I had

If you had, youd have kept quiet, I cut in. Listen closely, Edward. That was the last time. Your family tries another stunt, your bags join theirs on the stairs. Understood?

He nodded, frantic and fearful. He knewI wasnt bluffing.

I took a sip. The coffee was perfect. Hot, strong, and, most importantly, enjoyed at last in the utter, echoing silence of my own flat.

No, the crown didnt pinch. It fit just right.