“Could you pack up some food for us to take home?” — A visit I will never forget
Sometimes, life throws you moments that leave you questioning whether they were a joke or reality. A recent visit from my husband’s colleague’s family was one of those moments—one I now recall with a shiver down my spine and a firm resolve never to invite “barely acquainted nice people” into our home again.
We live in Manchester. I’m a homebody, and we have a cosy flat—small but full of warmth. We have one daughter, Emily, and that’s more than enough to make every day lively. My husband is sociable, working in a project team, often sharing stories from work—who said what, how they joked around, who covered for whom. One name that came up often was Andrew—a cheerful, active bloke who seemed reliable. He’d lend a hand if needed, cover shifts, go the extra mile for colleagues. In short, my husband thought well of him. So when he mentioned Andrew and his family wanted to drop by for a visit, I didn’t object—though I was surprised, as we’d never been close before.
Then, one evening, they showed up at our doorstep—Andrew, his wife Olivia, and their youngest daughter. The girl was around Emily’s age, and I was pleased the children could play together. At first, things seemed fine. Olivia struck me as lovely, smiling, pleasant… until she started speaking. And all she spoke about was one thing: children, children, children. They had three, and if you believed her, the world owed them everything—the government should pay more, employers should grant leave on demand, and grandparents should babysit from dawn till dusk.
I listened and nodded, but inside, I was seething. I wanted to snap, “Did you not think about the responsibility before having three children?” We have one child and fully understand the cost—financial, emotional, physical. So we decided one was enough for now. Yet they had three. And everyone else was to blame—the economy, the council, the grandparents, the schools… Anyone but the ones who chose to expand their family.
I bit my tongue. I don’t like confrontation in my own home. Plus, the children were playing quietly, and my husband seemed happy he’d arranged the visit. As a good host, I’d prepared in advance—roasted chicken, a couple of salads, a hot dish, even a homemade pie. I set the table, greeted them warmly. Though I listened more than I ate. The guests didn’t eat much either, and I wondered—maybe they were shy?
How wrong I was.
As dinner wound down and I mentally rejoiced that there’d be leftovers—no cooking tomorrow—Olivia took a sip of her squash and said to me, perfectly casual:
“You’ll pack some up for us to take home, won’t you? The chicken and salads… We didn’t eat much on purpose—wanted to bring some back. Can’t be bothered cooking this weekend.”
For a moment, silence hung in the room. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud. No shame. No lead-up. No hint of a joke. She genuinely expected to leave with takeaway containers full of our food!
I’d never packed leftovers for anyone—it just wasn’t done. What you serve is for the guests, at the table. But for a guest to outright ask to take it home? And with such entitlement, as if it were perfectly normal!
I glanced at my husband. He looked away, sensing the awkwardness. I forced a smile and managed:
“Pack it up? Well… I don’t have containers, just bags…”
Olivia beamed. Andrew stayed diplomatically quiet. I stuffed the leftovers into two carrier bags, handed them over. The whole time, one thought rang in my head: Never again.
After they left, my husband said,
“Maybe that’s just how she is… Three kids, not much time…”
I just gave a bitter laugh.
“Honestly, I don’t care what anyone’s used to. I won’t ever get used to guests like that.”
Since that evening, my home’s doors stay closed to those who arrive empty-handed but with grand expectations—especially those who treat my kitchen like a free buffet.
