Well, what do you think? My mother-in-law, Margaret’s relatives showed up two weeks before Easter, and by the looks of it, they’ve no intention of leaving anytime soon.
I, Emily, don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These guests are quite the *blessing*, and it seems they’ve decided our home is their personal bed-and-breakfast. Margaret, instead of reining them in, just nods along and stuffs them full of scones. Don’t even get me started on my husband, James, who’s pretending none of this is his problem. So here I am, telling you all this because I’m genuinely curious—whose patience will crack first? Mine or theirs?
It all began when I woke up one morning to a racket in the kitchen. I thought, *Maybe James is surprising me with breakfast?* Ha! Fat chance. I walk in to find a full-blown delegation: Auntie Maureen, her husband Nigel, and their daughter Gemma, all from some sleepy town where life, judging by their stories, is duller than a dishwasher manual. They’d come “for Easter,” but apparently, they decided the holiday starts a fortnight early. Margaret, beaming like a freshly polished teapot, was already at the stove, whipping up a roast. “*Darling, they’re family!*” she chirped. “*We must welcome them properly!*” I glanced at the suitcases crowding the hallway and knew—this was going to be a marathon, not a sprint.
Auntie Maureen has a voice like a foghorn. From the moment she arrived, she was off—moaning about how *everything’s so dear* back home while we’ve got it *so posh* here. Then, without missing a beat, she started inspecting the house like she was on *Homes Under the Hammer*. “*Emily, love, why are your curtains so dusty? And what’s this stain on the rug?*” she tutted, while *actually* rifling through the linen cupboard. I gritted my teeth and smiled, but inside, I was boiling. Nigel, her husband, was the polar opposite—silent as a wardrobe. He’s been camped in the living room, glued to the telly, switching channels only to demand *”put on the fishing show.”* And Gemma, their twenty-year-old daughter, lives on her phone but still manages to eat half our groceries. I caught her polishing off my favourite yoghurt the other day. “*Oh, I thought it was for everyone!*” she said. *For everyone. Just not you, Gemma.*
Margaret, instead of gently hinting that *maybe* they should start thinking about leaving, only fuels the fire. She cooks like she’s hosting a royal banquet: roast dinners, shepherd’s pies, Victoria sponges. Naturally, the relatives are in heaven. “*Maggie, you’re our angel!*” Auntie Maureen coos, while piling thirds onto her plate. I tried nudging Margaret—*maybe they’ve overstayed?*—but she gasped like I’d suggested drowning a kitten. “*Emily, how can you say that? They only visit once in a blue moon!*” Yes, and now it’s a *full moon* with no end in sight.
James, my *dear* husband, has perfected the art of neutrality. I begged him, “*Talk to your mother. Make them see it’s time to go.*” His response? “*Just bear with it, love. They’re guests.*” *Guests?!* This isn’t a visit; it’s a *hostile takeover.* I’ve started scheduling bathroom time because Gemma monopolises the mirror for selfies. Yesterday, Auntie Maureen “helped” by scrubbing my favourite frying pan *with steel wool.* “*I thought it’d do it good!*” she said. Good for the *bin*, maybe.
The *best* part? They’re making plans. Auntie Maureen’s decided she’ll stay through spring bank holiday to see “*how you lot barbecue properly.*” Nigel wants James to take him fishing, and Gemma’s demanding a trip to Westfield because “*they’ve no decent shops in their backwater.*” I sit there, wondering: *Are they ever leaving?* More importantly, how do I survive until then without losing my mind?
I’ve started plotting ways to *encourage* their departure. Fake a burst pipe? Claim we’re jetting off to Tenerife? But Margaret’s loving every minute. Last night, she suggested throwing a big Easter lunch and inviting the neighbours. “*Let everyone see how lovely and close we are!*” *Lovely*—except I feel like a stranger in my own home.
The one thing keeping me sane is my sense of humour. Late at night, once they’re all asleep, I pour myself a cuppa and imagine writing a book: *Surviving the Relatives: A Hostage’s Guide.* Chapters would include *How to Hide Biscuits*, *Smiling When You Want to Scream*, and *Not Strangling Your Mother-in-Law Over Tea.* But truthfully, I know this won’t last. They’ll leave, and our house will be ours again. Until then, I’m counting down to Easter and praying Auntie Maureen doesn’t decide to stay till summer.
Anyone else got family like this? How do you cope? Because I’m *this* close to snapping, but I refuse to surrender. Maybe by Easter, I’ll master zen. Or at least learn to stash yoghurts where Gemma can’t find them.
