**Diary Entry**
The moment Emily forced a smile and waved at the disappearing car carrying yet another set of *friends*, hatred boiled inside her. She wanted to scream, smash plates, chase them all away. But all she managed was a hissed remark to her husband:
*”If you invite anyone else without my say-so, you’ll be joining them outside.”*
*”I didn’t even call them!”* James shrugged. *”Mark invited himself—I couldn’t just say no…”*
*”Exactly! They treat us like a free holiday lodge! We built this cottage for ourselves, not for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to freeload. Every weekend—guests! I dread answering the phone now. They don’t even ask—just announce they’re coming.”*
The cottage sat on the edge of the Cotswolds, nestled by a pine forest. Brick-built, spacious, with a loft and a sunlit porch. The garden, the shed, the fire pit—all done by Emily, James, and her mother. They’d dreamed of peace. Instead, they got a parade of uninvited children, a mother-in-law scowling in the hammock, and endless kitchen chaos.
*”They bring food, don’t they? Fresh air’s good for everyone,”* James said breezily.
*”Especially your sister,”* Emily sneered. *”Dumped her two louts on us all summer without a penny. My mum’s elbows are shot from cooking, and yours lounges about like she’s on bloody holiday. And those kids aren’t even family!”*
*”Quiet—they’ll hear you.”*
*”Let them! Maybe they’ll realise they’re not welcome. My mum’s knees are knackered, and you moan she won’t stir the soup?”*
*”She helps where she can. Mine lives with us, remember? And the kids—that was her idea. Her grandkids. I don’t mind cooking, but why’s it all on us?”*
Emily yanked the porch curtain shut. *”Worst aren’t the family—it’s the freeloaders. Calls start Thursday, by Saturday they’re hammering the gate. Your mate Sophie shows up—*’Where’s the barbecue? When’s the hot tub?’* Why not go to her own place? Oh right—that’d require effort.”*
*”You’re being petty,”* James sighed.
*”And you’re spineless. And while we’re at it, I’m off to scrub ketchup off your nephews’ shirts—the geniuses who *’grilled sausages in the firepit’* then bathed in the ashes.”*
She slammed the bathroom door. Her mother peeked in. *”What’s the matter?”*
*”Take a wild guess. We’re cleaning, cooking, while a pack of strangers’ kids raid the garden like it’s a playground!”*
*”Then set rules. Your house—your say. Tell them straight: *’Not expecting guests.’*”*
*”What if they’re already here?”*
*”Perfect chance to say,* ’We’ve plans. Bought manure—fancy spreading it?’ *Or put them to weeding. Men can chop wood. Watch how fast they *’remember’* prior engagements.”*
*”Mum, that’s just… awkward.”*
*”Then quit moaning. But next time, I’m not lifting a spatula. Not a single potato peeled. Enough’s enough.”*
By Friday, Emily turned off her phone. Saturday, she was picking blackberries when a car pulled up. *Please, not us…* James’ voice rang out: *”Coming!”* He caught her glare—pure fury.
*”Sorry!”* he whispered. *”Just for the day…”*
Emily forced a *”Come in”* while wishing the ground would swallow her. The guests gushed about the scenery, snatched fruit, praised the *’country air’*. By evening, they’d demolished kebabs in the shed, and Alex started hinting at the hot tub.
Then her mother stood. Calm. Unshakable.
*”Alex—weren’t you *’too busy’* to help build that tub? Now you fancy a dip? We didn’t build it for moochers. And after you lot, *nobody* cleans it.”*
*”I had stuff on…”*
*”Not now? You treat us like a B&B. We’ve no weekends. Fancy hosting every week? Cooking, scrubbing, playing maid?”*
*”Margaret, you’re—overreacting,”* Alex mumbled.
*”Am I? Here’s a solution: Plot next door’s for sale. Build your own. Soak daily.”*
*”And the tub’s off-limits,”* Emily added. *”Sorry.”*
They left in a huff, but Emily breathed easy for the first time. Her mother hugged her. *”Well done. Your house. Your rules.”*
From then on, Emily answered calls with *”Family time—no.”* If they showed up: *”Leaving shortly.”* Some wheedled: *”Can’t we just picnic? We’ll hide the key!”*
*”What if you burn the place down? Or thieves? No.”*
By August, the gate stayed quiet—until James’ mother chirped: *”Surprise! Aunt Marge is visiting with the kids! Told her all about us. Tickets booked.”*
*”No.”* Emily’s voice cut sharp. *”My home. You ask first. No more relatives. Cancel them.”*
*”How could you?! They’re children!”*
*”Not mine. I pity *us*—my mum’s back’s wrecked.”*
*”You’re heartless! Where’s my Valium?”*
For days, the theatrics rolled on—drama, whiffs of lavender oil—but Emily held firm. Now, *she* invited guests. Once a month. Only those she wanted.
Walking past her mother-in-law, she heard Mum whisper: *”Taught you well.”* For the first time in years, the cottage felt like hers. A fortress.
And she’d learned to say *no*.
No more trampled boundaries.
**Lesson:** A home’s only yours if you guard the door.
