“And why exactly should *I* be the one 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 feigned shock on her face and asked, “And why on earth should *we* have to go?”—I felt something inside me snap. I couldn’t believe the person we’d helped without hesitation was now looking at us like *we* were the traitors. And she did it, mind you, with a pot of spaghetti Bolognese in one hand and *my* slippers on her feet.
It all started predictably enough.
My husband, James, and I live in Manchester. We rent a four-bedroom house—yes, it’s spacious, but the responsibility is just as big. We pay for it ourselves, no handouts. We both work hard, come home exhausted, but try to live decently. We took out a car loan, started saving little by little. No luxury, but no complaints either.
Then one evening, James walked in with a face like thunder.
“We need to help Emily,” he sighed, collapsing into the armchair.
“How, exactly? We’ve got no spare cash. You *know* after the car, it’s all just breaking even,” I said.
“They’re in trouble. Housing trouble. Lost the flat.”
Later, it turned out Emily and her husband, Daniel, had buried themselves in debt—fancy gadgets, meals out, the latest smartphones on finance, all for show, all to “keep up with the Joneses.” Then they stopped paying. The bailiffs came. And just like that, everything was gone.
We took them in. Because they were family. Because we felt sorry for them. Because, back then, we still believed it was temporary.
Six months. Half a year of absolute chaos.
They didn’t work. Slept till noon, ate, binge-watched telly, ranted about “stupid bosses” and “the system.” I’d come home from work, cook for everyone, clean, do laundry, then back to work. Emily wouldn’t even rinse her own mug. I offered her a job at my office—she refused. Said she was “exhausted” and “needed to find herself.” Meanwhile, she sprawled on the sofa, sipping the oat-milk lattes *I* kept buying.
And I put up with it. Because James asked me to. Because I felt awkward. Because “it’s just what you do.”
Until the night I walked into the bathroom and found their laundry *again* on the floor. I stood there, staring at the pile of clothes, and suddenly thought—*enough.*
The next day, I plucked up the courage. Emily and I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Emily, this isn’t working. I’ll help you find a flat, but you and Daniel need to go. We’re exhausted. This isn’t a B&B.”
“And why should *I* have to leave? Are we *inconveniencing* you? Don’t you *care* about us?” she snapped.
“Emily, don’t make this melodramatic. You said this was temporary. We’ve carried you for six months. You haven’t even *tried* to sort yourselves out. I can’t do it anymore. It’s too much. I just want my life back.”
She got offended. Packed her bags. Called me a heartless cow. 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 Daniel. Started renting her own place. Began *living*, instead of just existing.
Now, looking back, I get it—sometimes the best way to help someone is to stop being their safety net. Because if you keep carrying them, they’ll never learn to walk on their own.
I’m not proud of kicking out family. But I *am* proud of choosing *my* family—the one where respect matters more than blood.