**Personal Diary Entry**
I never imagined things would escalate so quickly. Youll be cooking for my sisters family too, Oliver said in that infuriatingly casual toneas if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if I were his personal chef rather than his wife.
I stood by the window, watching a cluttered white van pull into the driveway. My stomach knotted. For days, Oliver had been hovering with that guilty expression, bracing himself to drop some news.
Emma, hed begun carefully the night before, remember how I mentioned Sophies landlord is selling her flat?
Of course I remembered. His sister had rented a modest two-bed in the outskirts of London for years, living there with her husband, James, and their two kidsten-year-old Liam and six-year-old Poppy. The place was decent, the landlord fair, but now the landlords daughter was moving back from abroad. The tenants had to go.
Theyve asked to stay with us for a bit, Oliver continued, avoiding my eyes. Just until they find somewhere new.
I nodded silently. What could I say? Sophie was his only sister; they were close. You dont turn family away when theyre in a bind. And it *was* a bindyou cant just toss a family with two kids onto the streets.
How long? I finally asked.
Two, maybe three weeks tops, he said quickly. Theyre already flat-hunting. James even hired an estate agent.
Now, watching suitcases, bikes, and a cat carrier being unloaded from the van, I knew three weeks was optimistic.
The kids burst in firstLiam lugging a football and backpack, Poppy dragging a stuffed unicorn and chattering excitedly. The adults followedSophie with the cat in its carrier, James with the suitcases, Oliver with boxes.
Emma! Sophie beamed as she crossed the threshold. Thank you so much for letting us stay. Well be out of your hair as soon as we can
I hugged her, genuinely sympathetic. Sophie had always been kind but hopelessly passive. Shed married young, had kids straight after uni, and her world revolved around them. She did freelance graphic design, but James made most of the decisions.
Mum, where am I sleeping? Poppy asked immediately, scanning our modest two-bed terrace. Our place was cosy but smallthe master bedroom, a cramped living room with a sofa, a galley kitchen, and a loo barely big enough to turn around in. Perfect for two; a circus for six.
Well take the sofa, Sophie said. The kids can share the living room floor? Or maybe the hallway?
The sofas already in the living room, Oliver pointed out. Theyll fit.
What about Marmalade? Poppy fretted.
The cat stays in the utility room, James decided. Plenty of space for a litter tray.
Within hours, our home devolved into a cross between a student flat and a halfway house. The living room was overrun with toys, the hallway lined with suitcases, the cat hiding under the sofa*temporarily*, of course. The air smelled of unfamiliar shampoo, takeaway curry, and someone elses life.
I watched silently as my space dissolved. The worst part? How effortlessly they claimed it. As if my home were communal property.
Emma, wheres the extra loo roll? Sophie called from the bathroom, clutching her makeup bag.
Under the sink.
Mind if I borrow a towel? Ours are still packed.
Go ahead.
By evening, it was clear our old routine was dead. The kids raced around playing tag, Marmalade yowled for attention, and the adults debated flat-hunting strategies over tea.
Well check the agency on High Street tomorrowthe woman there seems decent, James said. Then well drive around neighbourhoods over the weekend.
Nothing too pricey, though, Sophie sighed. Our budgets tight.
Youll find something, Oliver said confidently. Worst case, you stay a bit longer.
I shot him a look. *Longer?* He caught my eye and glanced away, guilty.
Right, Ill start dinner, I muttered, retreating to the kitchen.
I pulled ingredients from the fridge, mentally calculating portions. I usually shopped for two, maybe three with leftovers. Now? Six mouths to feed, including kids who ate like adults.
Whats for dinner? Liam asked, peering in.
Havent decided yet.
Mum always makes spaghetti bolognese, Poppy chimed in.
Were out of mince, I said, checking the freezer.
For six, I had a chicken, some pasta, vegetables, and last nights leftover soup. Would it stretch?
Emma, dont stress, Sophie said, breezing in. Well eat anything.
But there might not be enough.
Well do a big shop tomorrow.
I nodded, chopping the chicken. Something told me *Id* be the one doing that shop.
Dinner was meagre. Chicken and pasta for six isnt the same as for two. The kids wolfed it down; the adults pretended not to notice the portions.
Thanks, its lovely, Sophie said.
Brilliant, James added.
Afterwards, I cleaned up aloneeveryone else was occupied with bedtime chaos.
Hows it going? Oliver asked, hovering in the kitchen.
Fine.
Theyll find a place soon.
Mmm.
He hesitated at my tone but let it go.
I woke at half six to shrieks and thundering footsteps. Normally, I rose at seven. Today, the kids had other plans.
Quiet, you two! Sophie hissed. Aunt Emma and Uncle Oliver are still asleep.
Too late. I gave up and got up.
The kitchen was a bombsitedirty dishes piled high, crumbs everywhere. Someone had made midnight toast and left the evidence.
Morning! Sophie chirped. I was going to wash up, but I didnt know where you keep things.
Ill do it, I said automatically.
Breakfast was a military operation. Oliver gulped coffee before work, James rushed out, Sophie fed the kids, and I darted between them like a waitress.
Emma, any cereal left? Sophie asked.
Think so.
Yogurt?
One pot.
Poppy, have cereal, Sophie told her.
I want yogurt like at home! Poppy whined.
Theres one yogurt and two of you, I said.
Then Liam cant have any!
I want it too! Liam protested.
Enough, Sophie cut in. Cereal. End of.
By the time the men left and the kids settled, I felt like Id run a marathon. And it was only the first morning.
Sophie, dont you have work? I asked.
I do, but its remote. Ill log on now. The kids can watch tellytheyre quiet then.
I nodded and retreated to the bedroomthe only untouched space.
Twenty minutes later:
Aunt Emma, Im thirsty.
I fetched water.
Half an hour later:
Aunt Emma, I need the loo.
An hour later:
Aunt Emma, Mum says can we use the washing machine?
By lunch, I accepted that working from home was impossible. The kids demanded attention, Marmalade yowled, Sophie Zoomed clients.
Emma, whats for lunch? Sophie asked at one.
Dunno. What do you usually have?
Oh, well sort something. Got any potatoes?
A few.
Chicken?
In the freezer.
Perfect, well do roast chicken.
I noted how she said *well*, yet made no move toward the stove.
Are you cooking? I clarified.
Oh! Right. Ive got a deadline at three. Maybe you start, and Ill jump in after?
I turned to the hob without a word.
By evening, I was frayed. Id cooked, cleaned, played referee, and got zero work done.
When the men returned, the air was thick.
Hows it been? Oliver asked.
Depends, I said flatly.
At dinner, James reported:
Saw two flats today. Ones too dear, the others a dump. Well view more tomorrow.
No rush, Oliver said. Plenty of space here.
I glared. *Plenty?* In a two-bed with six people?
We wont overstay, Sophie said weakly.
Course not, but no need to rush into a bad place.
After dinner, I cornered Oliver in the kitchen.
We need to talk.
About?
This isnt working. The kids are loud, I cant work, Im cooking nonstop, cleaning up after everyone
Em, its temporary. Shes my sister.
I get that. But why am I the one doing everything?
Sophie handles the kids, the men work
*I* work too!
From home, though
That doesnt mean Im free labour!
Oliver sighed. Fine. Ill talk to Sophie. Shell pitch in.
And James.
And James.
Next day? Nothing changed. Sophie was swamped, James late, and Oliver busy.
By day three, I snapped.
Right, I announced at dinner. Were splitting chores. Im not running a B&B.
Absolutely, Sophie agreed. Ill cook tomorrow.
And well rotate dishes, I added.
Naturally, James said.
But next morning, Sophie begged off: Urgent projectcover for me? James left early. Oliver was tied up.
So its me again, I muttered.
That evening, I lost it.
Oliver, this isnt sustainable.
What dyou mean?
Ive become your familys unpaid staff. Cooking, cleaning, childcare. Everyone else acts like guests.
Youre overreacting.
Am I? Who made breakfast today?
…You.
Lunch?
You.
Dinner?
Alright, I get it
Who washed up?
Emma, enough. Its hard right now, but
Hard? Its *unfair*! Why am I supporting an entire family?
They wont stay forever!
Its been a *week*. And Sophie said good flats wont open up for *months*.
So a month or twono big deal.
For *you*! You swan off to work; Im trapped here!
Trapped? Youre at home all day
STOP! I was shaking. At home *working*! Except I *cant*, because Im too busy serving everyone!
Oliver paled. Okay. Tomorrow, well sort a rota.
With *all* adults.
Fine.
But the rota talk was all vague promises. No real change.
Then came the final straw.
I was cooking when Oliver sauntered in.
Oh, forgot to mentionthe kids start school and nursery tomorrow. Breakfastll need to be earlier.
Right.
And pack their lunches.
Uh-huh.
Sophie says theyre out of clean clothes. Maybe do a wash?
Maybe *she* can?
She doesnt know how our machine works.
She can learn.
Oliver hesitated, then added:
And with more of us, youll need to cook bigger portions.
I froze.
What?
Well, theyll be eating here all the time now
And?
Youll be cooking for my sisters family too, he said, like it was obvious.
The knife clattered onto the counter. I turned slowly.
Say that again.
What?
What you just said. About me cooking.
Oliver blinked, realising his mistake.
I just meant with more people
Ill be cooking, I repeated. Right.
I untied my apron and walked out.
Emma? Where are you going?
Bedroom.
What about dinner?
You said Ill cook. So I will. When I choose to.
I locked the door, hands trembling. In two weeks, Id gone from wife to skivvy. And my husband saw nothing wrong with it.
I yanked out a suitcase and packed Olivers things. Neatly, methodically. Then I carried it to the living room, where everyone lounged.
Change of plans, I said, setting it down. Youre all staying at your mums. Her house is biggermore space for the kids.
Stunned silence.
Emma, whats this about? Sophie asked.
Your comfort. At your mums, you wont be tripping over each other.
But weve settled here James began.
*You* have. *I* havent. I refuse to be your maid.
Maid? James looked baffled.
Whos cooked every meal? I asked. Washed every dish? Entertained your kids?
Silence.
Exactly. So pack up. We leave in an hour.
An hour later, we piled into the carme driving, them shell-shocked. Olivers mum, a sharp-eyed woman in her seventies, answered the door.
To what do I owe the pleasure? she asked dryly.
Mum, were staying a bit, Oliver mumbled.
All of you? How long?
Until they work out how to share chores fairly, I said.
She studied my face, then Olivers.
Ah. Come in, then.
I helped unload, then turned to leave.
Emma, Oliver caught my arm. This is mad. Lets go home and talk.
Nothing to discuss. You wanted a live-in cook? Fine. But on *my* terms. Meanwhile, draft a rota*everyone* cooks, cleans, does laundry. Equally.
Or?
Or you stay here.
The next morning, I woke at eightblissfully quiet. I sipped coffee, worked uninterrupted.
That evening, Oliver called.
Weve talked. Youre rightwe took the mick.
And?
Mum tore strips off us. Said we were acting like entitled brats.
Smart woman.
We made a rota. Want me to read it?
Bring it tomorrow. *Signed* by everyone.
They returned, shamefaced.
Emma, were so sorry, Sophie said. We were selfish.
Didnt realise how much you were doing, James admitted.
Oliver handed me the rota. Breakfasts, lunches, dinnersdivided fairly. Dishes, cleaning, laundryrotated. No more Aunt Emma as default babysitter.
Reasonable, I said. Now prove it.
And they did. Mostly. Sophie forgot her cooking day once; James missed the dishes. Oliver tried skiving on hoovering. But now, I held them to it.
Sophie, your turn for breakfast.
Ah! Works madcould you
No. Porridge takes ten minutes.
James, last nights dishes.
Sorry, got in late
Deals a deal.
Oliver, Saturday deep-clean. Your turn.
Em, Im shattered
We all are. The floors wont mop themselves.
Slowly, it stuck. Even the kids helpedtidying toys, setting the table.
A month later, they found a flat.
Honestly? Sophie confided before leaving. Im glad this happened.
Why?
At home, James never lifted a finger. Now? He cooks. I clean. The kids pitch in. Were *proper* partners.
Good.
Moving day was bittersweet.
Emma, Oliver said awkwardly. About that night I was a total prat.
Water under the bridge.
No, its not. I treated you like staff. I wont again.
Prove it.
Actually maybe we should make a rota for us too?
I smiled. Not a bad idea.
Once theyd gone, Oliver sighed.
Regret being so tough?
Not a bit. If I hadnt, Id still be your maid.
Youre right.
And Oliver? If you ever *order* me to cook again, remember the suitcase.
He nodded. Loud and clear.
Six months later, at a family gathering, Sophie grinned.
Guess what? Liam tidies his room now. *Himself.* And James makes a killer Sunday roast.
Brilliant, I said.
All thanks to you. If you hadnt kicked us out
Gently suggested, James corrected.
wed still be taking the piss.
Now your homes fair, I said. Thats what matters.
And it was true. No more orders. No more servants. Just equal partnerssharing the load.
Oliver really did regret his words. And he never forgot: in a family, you dont *command*. You *cooperate*.
