So, get this—sometimes life throws you these moments where you’re just left standing there like, *Wait, did that really happen?* This whole thing with my husband’s coworker and his family dropping by? Yeah, that’s one of those moments. I swear, every time I think about it, I get this weird shiver down my spine. Never again am I inviting “nice acquaintances” over.
We live in Leeds, me and my husband. I’m a bit of a homebody, really—our flat’s small but cosy, y’know? We’ve got one daughter, Sophie, and honestly, she’s plenty to keep our days busy. My husband’s the social one—works in project management, always coming home with stories about this bloke Daniel, his coworker. Daniel’s this loud, cheerful guy, always cracking jokes, covering shifts, helping out—the whole package. So when my husband mentioned Daniel and his family wanted to pop round for a visit, I didn’t mind. Bit odd, though—we’d never really hung out before.
Anyway, one evening, there they are on our doorstep—Daniel, his wife Gemma, and their youngest. Their kid’s about Sophie’s age, so I thought, *Great, they can play.* Started off alright. Gemma seemed sweet, friendly, smiley… until she opened her mouth. And then it was *kids, kids, kids.* They’ve got three of ‘em, and according to her, *everyone* owes them something—the government should pay more, employers should bend over backwards, grandparents should drop everything to babysit.
I just nodded along, but inside? Boiling. Wanted to say, *Did you not think about any of this before having three kids?* We’ve got one, and we *know* what it costs—money, energy, sanity. We’re good with one. But them? Three. And somehow, *everyone else* is to blame—the economy, the council, the schools. Never them, though.
I kept my mouth shut. Not the time or place for rowing, especially with the kids playing nicely and my husband looking dead chuffed about hosting. Me? I’d gone all out—roast chicken, salads, sides, even made a proper pudding. Table set, smiles on. I barely ate, though, too busy listening. Neither did they, really. I thought maybe they were just being polite.
*Oh, how wrong I was.*
Dinner’s winding down, and I’m quietly relieved there’s loads left—means no cooking tomorrow. Then Gemma takes a sip of her squash, looks at me, and drops this:
*“D’you mind packing some up for us to take? The chicken and salads, I mean. We didn’t eat much ‘cause we figured we’d bring it home. Don’t fancy cooking this weekend.”*
Dead silence. I was *stunned.* No shame, no joke, just straight-up expecting me to hand over half our dinner like it’s a takeaway.
I’ve *never* done that—it’s just not the done thing. Guests eat what’s served, full stop. But here she was, acting like it was perfectly normal.
I glanced at my husband. He was staring at his shoes, mortified. I forced a smile and said, *“Pack it up? Uh… I don’t have containers, just carrier bags…”*
Gemma *beamed.* Daniel stayed quiet. I shoved the leftovers into two Tesco bags, handed ‘em over, and the whole time, my brain was just screaming, *NEVER. AGAIN.*
After they left, my husband tried, *“Maybe that’s just how they are. Three kids, busy life…”*
I just laughed. *“Yeah, well, I don’t care what they’re used to. I’m not getting used to *that* kind of guest.”*
And that was that. Our door’s shut to anyone who shows up empty-handed but expects the world. Especially the ones who treat my kitchen like a free Gregg’s.
