**Diary Entry 30th April**
Bloody hell, what kind of mess have they left this time? Call your family and tell them to come clean it upIm not doing it. As if washing sheets after your mates crash here isnt enough. Theyve made a habit of freeloading at our cottage.
Over dinner, my husband, Oliver, casually mentioned, “Mum rang earlier. She and the relatives are planning a barbecue this weekend.”
“Lovely for her,” I snapped. “Whats that got to do with us?” Ive never hidden my dislike for my mother-in-law.
“They want to use our cottage,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Theirs is too small, and Ive got garage work on Saturday.” Naturally, hed already handed over the keys.
What choice did I have? I agreedand regretted it instantly. The following weekend, we arrived to a disaster. The place looked ransacked. Jam jars emptied, floors filthy, a mouldy soup pot left on the hob. Even the kitchen curtain had vanished. Sixty years old, and they behaved like teenagers.
I lost it. “What kind of animals stayed here? Call your familymake them clean this up! Im done washing sheets after your mates. And now theyve made our cottage their free B&B!”
Oliver shrugged. “Stop overreacting. Just chuck it in the washer and hang it out.”
“Next time, you do it! Are you seriously happy with how theyve left our place?”
He never called them. We didnt speak for days before making up. Weve only been married two yearsmarried for love, though lately I wonder if I rushed into it. No kids yet.
Life was routinework, home, home, work. Weekends were walks or pub trips with friends. Then everything changed. My mother remarried and moved to Manchester, leaving me her cottage.
Suddenly, Olivers family adored me. Everyone wanted an invitecousins, uncles, even his gran. All craving fresh air and a good barbecue. They came with overnight bags, Oliver fired up the grill, and I bit my tongue. I didnt want to cause a scene, but something had to give.
Weekends became something I dreaded. Olivers mum, Margaret, was from the countryside and acted like everything was communal property. She and his sister, Claire, helped themselves to my lotions, shampoo, even my slippers. Then another callMargaret wanted the keys again. This time, Claire was bringing her boss for a “relaxing weekend.”
As usual, no one asked me.
“Just give Mum the keys,” Oliver said. He remembered my last meltdown but didnt want to discuss it.
Enough. I rang my mum.
“Ill handle it,” she said briskly.
Twenty minutes later, she called back. “Aunt Margarets coming to stay. Dont worryshell sort it.”
I nearly choked. Aunt Margaret terrified me. Childhood summers at hers were memorable. She knew how to put people in their place.
That evening, she rang. “Youve gone quiet, havent you? Shouldve called sooner. Nowhow do you want this handled? A light scare or full force?” She cackled.
I shuddered. “Did you tell them the cottage is in my name?”
“Doesnt matter. Leave it to me.”
Sunday, Olivers phone rang. His mum was hysterical. “You sold the cottage? Wheres the money? Why werent we told?”
Turns out, Claire, her boss, and Margaret arrived to find a group of five already barbecuing.
“Who are you?” Margaret gasped.
The woman in charge stepped forward. “I own this cottage. Who are *you*? Howd you get keys?”
Claire babbled about family ties. The woman cut her off. “Keys. Now.”
They were thrown out, warned never to return.
Oliver was baffled. His mum screeched into the phone. “Its not yours!”
“Did you ever ask?” I said coolly. “Or did you assume everythings yours?”
“Claires boss was here! Theres layoffs at workshe was trying to impress her! If shes sacked, its on you!”
“Not my problem. Aunt Margaret owns it. Buy your own cottage if youre so bothered.”
Oliver was furious. “Ill never forgive you. My family loved you, and you lied!”
I didnt care. Claire was sackedprobably for incompetence, not this. Our marriage hit a wall.
“Mum, Im divorcing Oliver.”
“Your choice. Where will you live? Ive rented my flat out. Go to Aunt Margarets.”
“Thanks ever so,” I muttered. “Ill rent somewhere.”
I filed for divorce, moved out, and havent been back to the cottage since.
**End of Entry.**
