When my in-laws’ apartment flooded, I didn’t hesitate to offer them a place to stay. Family comes first, right? But six weeks later, my home didn’t feel like mine anymore. It had become their personal hotel—and I was the stressed-out host.
At first, it seemed manageable. My wife, Julia, got a frantic call from her mother, Vera, about a burst pipe. “Of course, they can stay here,” I said. “Just a week, maybe two,” Julia added. That word—week—made me nod. I could handle a week.
Then came the entourage: Vera, her husband Frank, Julia’s brother Kevin, and Aunt Marie—four extra adults, luggage overflowing, invading every corner of the house. The living room became a maze, the guest room a storage unit. I reminded myself it was temporary.
The first days were tolerable. Vera took over the kitchen, Frank planted himself in front of the TV all day, Kevin lounged on the couch glued to his phone, and Marie—well, she never stopped talking. Every. Single. Minute.
By week two, small annoyances became chaos. Vera reorganized the kitchen—my coffee mugs vanished, my spices were alphabetized differently, my cast-iron pan? Gone. Frank “fixed” my garage tools and dismantled my lawnmower. Kevin acted like it was vacation, contributing nothing. Marie started inviting friends over. I came home to five strangers sipping tea in my living room.
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