“Who says I have to leave?!”—how my sister-in-law and her husband turned our home into a hostel and demanded to stay
When Emily, my husband’s younger sister, stood in the middle of our kitchen with fake shock on her face and said, “Why on earth should *we* leave?”—my stomach twisted. I couldn’t believe the person we’d helped was now staring at us like *we* were the traitors. And she did it, mind you, with a pot of beef stew in one hand and *my* slippers on her feet.
It all started simply enough.
My husband, James, and I live in Manchester. We rent a three-bedroom house. Sure, it’s spacious, but it’s a huge responsibility—we pay for it ourselves, no handouts. We both work hard, come home exhausted, but we’re building a decent life. We got a car on finance, started saving bit by bit. Not splurging, but not complaining either.
Then one evening, James walked in looking grim.
“Emily needs help,” he sighed, dropping onto the sofa.
“What kind of help? We’ve got no spare cash—you *know* how tight things are since the car,” I said.
“They’re in trouble. Housing. Lost their flat.”
Turns out, Emily and her husband, Tom, had maxed out loans—fancy gadgets, meals out, iPhones on payment plans. Everything for show, everything to “keep up.” Then they stopped paying. Debt collectors came. Everything vanished.
We took them in. Because family. Because we felt sorry. Because we still believed it’d be temporary.
Six months. Half a year of pure chaos.
They didn’t work. Slept till noon, ate, binged, moaned about “rubbish bosses” and “the system.” I’d come home from work, cook for everyone, clean, do laundry, then back to work. Emily couldn’t even rinse a mug. I offered her a job at my office—she refused. “I’m burned out,” she said. “Need time to recover.” Then went back to lounging on the sofa, sipping the coffee *I* bought.
I put up with it. Because James asked me to. Because I felt awkward. Because “that’s just how things are.”
Until the night I walked into the bathroom and found their dirty clothes *again*. I stood there, staring at the pile on the floor, and suddenly thought: *Enough.*
The next day, I steeled myself. Emily and I sat at the kitchen table.
“Em, this isn’t working. I’ll help you find a flat-share, but you and Tom need to go. We’re exhausted. This isn’t a B&B.”
“Why should *I* leave? Are we in your way? Do you even *like* us?” she snapped.
“Emily, don’t make this a scene. You *said* it was temporary. We’ve carried you for six months. You haven’t even *tried*. I can’t do this anymore. I want my home back.”
She stormed off. Packed her bags. Called me a snake. Said I’d ruined her marriage, that I’d been jealous all along. Then two weeks later… she got a job. A *good* one. Dumped Tom. Rented a place. Started *living*, not just surviving.
Now, looking back, I get it: sometimes the best help is letting someone stand on their own. Because if you keep carrying them, they’ll never learn to walk.
I’m not proud of kicking family out. But I *am* proud of choosing *my* family—the one where respect matters more than blood.