*From the Diary of Emily Whitmore, Age 34*
At long last, we waved my parents off at the station. The train carried them back home, and as we stepped into our little flat in Manchester, silence wrapped around us. Space. Peace. Just my husband, the children, and me. I adore Mum and Dad, truly—but between you and me, distance suits us best.
How long were they here? Oh, straight in the flat with us, naturally. Other arrangements were out of the question. Once, I timidly suggested a hotel, but they were hurt—”We came to see our grandchildren, not to stay in some guesthouse!” Two weeks in our one-bedroom flat, all six of us: me, my husband, the two kids, Mum, and Dad. Cramped doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Logistics? A nightmare. My husband, James, slept on a camp bed in the kitchen. The children, my parents, and I squeezed into the bedroom—thank goodness for that inflatable mattress we bought for these occasions. I won’t lie—I counted down the days. The kids’ routines were wrecked, and Mum’s “help” mostly meant unsolicited advice. The moment we got back from the station, the phone rang. James’s tone told me it was his mother. I busied myself with the children, but then he dropped it on me—she’d already booked her ticket. She’d be here in two days.
Seriously? One set of guests leaves, and another takes their place? I gasped, “You’re joking, right? More visitors?” I begged for breathing room—could he ask her to come later, maybe in a fortnight?
Eight years ago, James and I moved from a small town in Yorkshire to Manchester. Those first years were rough: a shoebox rental, scraping by on low wages. His parents sent money, brought groceries. Eventually, I landed remote copywriting work, and things improved. James climbed the ranks at an IT firm. We bought a car, mortgaged this flat on the outskirts. Then came the children—a son, now four, and a daughter, two-and-a-half.
Between the kids, the house, and deadlines, I’m stretched thin. James leaves at dawn, comes home late—weekends are his only time with the children. He never takes holiday; the extra pay goes straight to the mortgage. We dream of more space—this flat is suffocating with two little ones.
This summer, we didn’t travel. His parents arrived with sacks of vegetables, jars of preserves. The freezer’s packed, the balcony buried under potatoes. I scolded them—why haul all this across counties? Manchester has shops! But no, theirs is “proper” food. Now James’s mother’s announced she’s bringing her own stash.
Sometimes, I think she’s competing with my parents. They came, spoiled the kids, left—now she must match it. Where will I put all these jars? No pantry, no cellar. But that’s not the worst of it. I’m drained. Guests mean meals, chatter, entertainment. Work’s piled up, the children are overtired.
And why must they spring it on us? A ticket bought, no question if it suits us. Just, “Expect me!” It makes my blood boil. Worse, James and I argued—he refused to ask her to delay the trip. He’d spent two weeks silent, sleeping in the kitchen, chauffeuring my parents on his days off. Exhausted, yet playing the gracious host. Now he’s wounded that I can’t endure his mother—alone, for just a week. She wants to see the grandchildren, bring her gifts.
Tell me—am I wrong to welcome my parents but beg respite from his? Or was it selfish of her, barging in unasked? Should we have just requested a later visit?