“Can you pack up the leftovers for us?” – A visit I’ll never forget
You know how sometimes you meet people and afterward, you’re left wondering if it was a prank or real life? Well, that’s exactly how I felt after a recent visit from my husband’s colleague and his family—a moment I still look back on with a shiver down my spine and a firm resolution to NEVER invite “nice acquaintances” over again.
We live in Manchester with our little girl, Sophie. I’m a bit of a homebody, and we’ve got a cosy flat—small but full of warmth. My husband’s the sociable type, always chatting about his team at work, swapping stories about who said what or pulled a fast one. One name that kept popping up was Andrew—a cheerful, energetic bloke who seemed reliable. Always helping out, covering shifts, the sort everyone likes. So when my husband mentioned Andrew and his family wanted to drop by, I didn’t mind. Though, I was surprised—we’d never really hung out before.
Then one evening, they showed up at our door—Andrew, his wife Olivia, and their youngest daughter. She was around Sophie’s age, so I thought the kids might have fun together. At first, things seemed fine. Olivia came across as sweet, smiling… until she started talking. And all she talked about was kids, kids, kids. They’ve got three, and according to her, the whole world owed them something—the government should pay more, employers should hand out leave like sweets, and grandparents should be on permanent babysitting duty.
I nodded along, but inside, I was fuming. I wanted to ask, “Did you think about all this before having three kids?” We’ve got one child, and we know exactly what it costs—money, energy, sanity. But for them? Everyone else was to blame—the economy, the council, the schools… anyone but the people who decided to expand their family.
I bit my tongue. I hate drama in my own home, especially with the kids playing nicely and my husband seemingly happy about the visit. I’d put in the effort—roast chicken, a couple of salads, a hot dish, even a homemade pie. The table was set, smiles all around. Though I mostly listened while they barely touched the food. I thought maybe they were being polite.
Oh, how wrong I was.
As dinner wrapped up and I was quietly relieved there’d be plenty left for tomorrow—no cooking for me—Olivia took a sip of her drink and casually said:
“Could you pack some of this up for us? The chicken and salads… We didn’t eat much because we wanted to take some home. Don’t fancy cooking this weekend.”
For a second, the room went dead silent. I was stunned. Did she really just say that? No shame, no joke, no lead-up. She fully expected to walk out with our food packed up like a takeaway!
I’d never packed leftovers for guests—that’s just not how we do things. You bring food *to* your hosts, not take it from them! And the way she said it, like it was the most normal thing in the world…
I glanced at my husband. He looked at his shoes. Knew it was awkward. I forced a smile and muttered,
“Pack it up? Uh… I don’t have proper containers, just plastic bags…”
Olivia beamed. Andrew stayed diplomatically quiet. I stuffed the leftovers into two bags and handed them over, my brain screaming one thing: *Never again.*
After they left, my husband tried, “Maybe that’s just how she is… Three kids, not much time…”
I whispered bitterly,
“I don’t care what she’s used to. *I’m* not getting used to guests like that.”
From that night on, my door’s closed to anyone who shows up empty-handed but with a shopping list. And especially to people who treat my kitchen like a free buffet.
