They had kept their newly purchased countryside cottage a secret from the relatives. Everything needed to be sorted immediatelygrab the spades and start digging in the garden. They werent coming anymore.
Then the phone shattered the quiet of the morning so abruptly that Emily flinched. The screen flashed: *Aunt Margaret.*
“Emily, darling!” came the cheerful voice on the other end. “Youll never guesswere coming to your little retreat!”
Her tea froze halfway to her lips. Aunt Margaret was the same one who had “popped in” to stay at their new London flat for three months while her own place was being refurbished. Those three endless months had been filled with constant remarks like, “Why on earth do you do it like this?” and “In my day, we did things properly.”
“How… are you coming? Who… is ‘we’?” Emily managed to choke out.
“Oh, just the girls and me! A week of relaxation,” Aunt Margaret replied, laughter and the clinking of wine glasses faint in the background. “Whats the matter? Were family!”
That word*family*had always been Aunt Margarets golden ticket, unlocking any door. After the flat incident, Emily and James had sworn to keep the cottage a secret. But someone must have let it slipeven given them the address.
“Aunt Margaret, we really cant” Emily tried, struggling to steady her voice.
“Too late! Were already on the train!” her aunt trilled. “See you soon!”
The line went dead. Emilys pulse quickened. She dialled her husband.
“James, Aunt Margaret and the girls are on their way.”
“Bloody hell,” he sighed. “Just dont answer the door.”
“They wont leave,” Emily muttered, twisting the edge of her jumper. “Theyll stand at the gate, making a scene for all the neighbours. Remember the flat? ‘My own niece, throwing me out like rubbish!'”
By noon, Aunt Margaret and her entouragethree middle-aged cousinshad commandeered the kitchen. The sunlit patio, where Emily had savoured her morning coffee, was now strewn with unfamiliar suitcases. The fridge, once neatly stocked, was crammed with jars of homemade chutney and half-empty bottles of wine.
“Emily, where are the towels?” bellowed Sarah from the bathroom.
“And bring loo roll!” added Claire.
“Your shampoos dreadful,” sniffed Beatrice, wrinkling her nose at the lavender-scented bottle. “Havent you got anything decent?”
Emilys nails dug into her palms. Her shampoo was precisely as she liked ithers, not meant for an invasion of guests. It was time to learn to say *no*, even to family.
“Youve done rather well for yourselves!” Aunt Margaret declared, settling into the wicker chair Emily and James had brought back from Provence. “Lovely garden, a hot tub… Why keep it to yourselves? Were family!”
“Thats exactly why,” Emily murmured, the strain creeping into her voice.
“What was that, dear?” Aunt Margaret cupped her ear theatrically.
“I said, *thats why*!” Emilys voice cracked. “Because youre the sort of relatives who barge in, take over, and treat our home like your own!”
“Emily!” Aunt Margaret gasped, clutching her pearls. “How *dare* you”
“I dare!” Something long-suppressed burst free. “Remember the flat? ‘Just a quick visit!’ Three months later, I was crying in the loo every night because nothing was ever good enough for you!”
The cousins appeared in the doorwaySarah clutching towels, Claire with a wine glassstaring in shock.
“Besides, were leaving for Cornwall soon,” Emily said, forcing calm into her trembling voice. “Weve got train tickets.”
“Oh, dont fuss, well manage!” Aunt Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “Off you go!”
“No.” Emilys voice was steel. “Youre not staying. Not for a week, not even a night. This is *our* home, and we want it to ourselves.”
Aunt Margaret blinked, as if the words hadnt quite registered.
They endured three days. Three days of forced smiles and gritted teeth. Mornings began with strangers in the kitchen, afternoons with relentless critiques”Whys this here?” or “No one does it like this anymore.” Evenings were drowned out by off-key singing and clinking glasses, oblivious to the neighbours. The petunias wilted, forgotten. Lilys toys vanished”cluttering up the place.” Even the cat fled to the neighbours shed.
On the fourth morning, Emily set the suitcases by the door.
“Aunt Margaret,” she said firmly. “Youre leaving today.”
“Excuse me?” Her aunt nearly spilled her sherry. “We agreed on a week!”
“We agreed on *nothing*,” Emily said. “You decided for us, just like with the flat. But no more. We leave tomorrow, and theres packing to do.”
“This is outrageous!” Beatrice spluttered.
“Family, I know,” Emily said bitterly. “But family doesnt mean trampling boundaries. You didnt askyou just *took*.”
“Its only a short visit!” Sarah protested.
“A short visit?” Emilys temper flared. “Youve rearranged my home, criticised everything, and acted like you own the place. Do you know how many nights I spent in tears because of you?”
Aunt Margaret set down her glass, her face unreadable.
For a moment, Emily was back in that London flatthe knock at the door, Aunt Margarets tearful plea: “Just a week, darling! The builders are in!” That week had stretched into three gruelling months.
At first, it had seemed harmless. Theyd just moved ina cosy two-bedroom, every cushion, every bookshelf chosen with care. Then came the invasion.
“Emily, these curtains are ghastly!” Aunt Margaret had tutted, rearranging the china. “Look at Beatricesproper lace, like civilised people!”
“Theyre minimalist,” Emily had argued weakly.
“Minimalist? More like *prison* chic!”
Day by day, their sanctuary became a battleground. Floral tea towels replaced sleek linens”brightens things up!” The bathroom overflowed with lotions”the girls need their bits and bobs!” The hallway became a shrine to other peoples coats”family drops by, you know!”
Then came the “girls nights.”
“Just a quiet cuppa, love!” Aunt Margaret would say, lining up sherry glasses.
The “cuppa” lasted until dawn. James buried himself under noise-cancelling headphones. Emily locked herself in the loo, stifling sobs.
“Darling, why hide?” Aunt Margaret would coo. “Come join us! Beatrice made her famous scones!”
Mornings brought fresh critiques.
“Emily, your fridge is barren!” Aunt Margaret lamented. “In my day, a woman kept a proper larder!”
*In my day*the phrase haunted her. *In my day*, women cooked, cleaned, and never dared to want space of their own. Every morning, Emily vowed, *Today, Ill tell her to leave*. But the words always died on her lips.
“Hold on,” James would whisper at night. “Its temporary.”
That *temporary* lasted three months. Three months of foreign smells in her kitchen, strangers hands in her cupboards, endless comparisons: “Beatrice does it *this* way,” “Sarahs home is *so* much cosier.”
And when Aunt Margaret finally packed…
“Darling, how will I cope without you?” shed sniffed. “Maybe just a *little* longer?”
“Your renovations done,” Emily had said flatly.
“Is that all we are to you? *Family* means something!”
For weeks afterward, theyd scrubbed, rearranged, reclaimed. Theyd sworn: *Never again*. No unannounced visits, no “just popping in,” no guilt-tripping.
Yet here she wassuitcases, wine, the same old refrain: *But were family!*
The silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock, the hum of bees in the roses, the distant whistle of a train.
“Very well,” Aunt Margaret said at last, her voice quiet. “Youre right. We… *overstayed*. Girls, pack up.”
An hour later, they were gone. No slamming doors, no theatrics. Just… gone.
That evening, as Emily sipped her tea on the patio, she wondered: had it always been this simple? Just *say no*? No excuses, no pretence. Sometimes the hardest thing wasnt learning to refusebut finding the courage to do it when it mattered.
