**Diary Entry: Setting Boundaries**
My husband, William, comes from a loud, sprawling familythree brothers and two sisters, all settled with their own households now. Yet, like clockwork, they descend upon our home, not for a quick cuppa but for full-blown feasts. Birthdays, anniversaries, even random bank holidaystheyll seize any excuse. And its always at ours. Youve got the room! theyd cheer, as if our hard-earned, mortgage-heavy cottage with its garden, barbecue, and driveway were their personal holiday escape.
At first, I didnt mind. Growing up an only child, I loved the chaosthe laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional tipsy uncle butchering a pub song. But slowly, it became servitude. Ever roasted a Sunday dinner for 15 relatives while they lounged? The women would flop onto the patio chairs with their Prosecco the second they arrived; the men would heroically man the grill. Meanwhile, Id be elbow-deep in peelings, my hair frizzing like a startled sheepdog, my nice dress swapped for a flour-streaked apron. William would poke his head in, guilt etched across his face: Need help? Id force a smile. Im fine.
The worst part? Emerging, exhausted, to find them all polished like they were off to Wimbledon, while I looked like Id wrestled a food processor. All I wanted was one evening where I could sip my wine without playing overworked waitress.
After these marathons, William would quietly tackle the mountain of dishes while I collapsed into bed. He was wrecked toohis eyes begging for a lazy Sunday with a takeaway curry and rubbish telly. But neither of us wanted to stir the pot. Until his brother called.
Were doing my birthday at yours, yeah? Same as usual.
William hung up, turned to me, and dropped the bombshell: Tomorrow, you wake up, put on that posh dress you never wear, do your hair, maybe even throw on some lipstick. But the kitchen? Hands off. Not a single thing.
I stared. But what about
Nope. They can bring their own food. Youre not their caterer. We deserve a break too.
The next day, the clan arrived, arms full of Sainsburys bags and Waitrose dessertsonly to find an eerily empty table. The silence was delicious. William, ever the diplomat, announced: New rules. Pitch in or take your parties elsewhere. Were done hosting.
Cue shocked whispers and the quietest celebration in history. But miracles do happenthe next gathering? Hosted by his sister. Turns out, they *can* manage. Just needed a little nudge.
