**Diary Entry**
I was just taking an apple pie out of the oven when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock—half past nine in the morning. A bit early for visitors.
“Coming, coming!” I called, wiping my hands on my apron and heading to the front door.
There stood my cousin, Margaret, and her husband, Roger, weighed down with shopping bags and suitcases. Margaret looked frazzled, while Roger scowled impatiently.
“Emily, darling!” Margaret gushed, flinging her arms around me. “We’ve come to stay! You wouldn’t turn away family, would you?”
“Margaret?” I blinked at them, baffled. “What’s happened? Where have you come from?”
“From Manchester,” Roger grumbled, dragging a massive suitcase into the hall. “Took ages with all the traffic.”
“Come in, come in,” I said, flustered. “But—you didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Margaret shrugged off her coat and hung it up.
“It’s a bit of a mess, love. Roger lost his job, money’s tight, and we had to sell the flat.”
“Sell it?” I gasped.
“Debts, loans,” Roger muttered, waving a hand. “Anyway, we thought we’d stay with you. You’ve got that three-bedroom house all to yourself.”
I stood there, stunned. Margaret had already wandered into the kitchen, sniffing the air.
“Something smells lovely! Is that pie? We’re starving—haven’t eaten properly in days.”
“Sit down,” I said weakly. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Roger slumped into a chair, glancing around.
“Nice place, Emily. Fresh paint, decent furniture. Must be nice living alone.”
His tone was loaded, and it stung. I’d been on my own since my husband passed eight years ago—quiet, orderly. I worked at the library, made enough to get by.
“What about your things?” I asked, pouring tea.
“Right here in the hall,” Margaret said. “Roger, take the bags to the spare room.”
“Which spare room?” I asked cautiously.
“Whichever’s free! You’ve got three!”
“Margaret, let’s talk first. How long are you planning to stay?”
She and Roger exchanged looks.
“Just until we get back on our feet,” she said vaguely.
“And when might that be?”
“Who knows?” Roger cut himself a huge slice of pie. “Month, maybe six. Depends.”
My stomach twisted. I couldn’t turn them away, but the thought of constant company horrified me.
“You wouldn’t throw us out, would you?” Margaret grabbed my hand. “We’re family. Family helps each other.”
“Of course not,” I sighed. “It’s just… sudden.”
By evening, they’d settled in completely. Roger sprawled on the sofa, flipping channels loudly, while Margaret rearranged my kitchen, clattering dishes.
“Emily, your spice jars are all wrong,” she tutted. “Sugar at the back, salt next to the tea? I’ve fixed it.”
I stared in dismay. Everything had its place—now I couldn’t even find the coffee.
“Margaret, why move everything?”
“Because it wasn’t right! I’ve got an eye for these things.”
“Oi, women!” Roger bellowed. “When’s dinner? I’m starving.”
Margaret bustled over. “What have you got, love?”
I opened the fridge—some cheese, a bit of ham, two eggs. My usual modest supper.
“Not much,” I admitted.
“That won’t feed three!” she exclaimed. “We’ll pop to the shop.”
“With what money?” Roger grunted. “We’re skint.”
They both looked at me. Reluctantly, I handed over a few notes.
“Ta, love!” Margaret beamed. “We’ll pay you back, promise!”
At the shop, she loaded the trolley with expensive treats—smoked salmon, cake, chocolates—while I silently paid, half my wages gone.
“Now we’re living!” Roger grinned, inspecting the haul. “None of that measly ham rubbish.”
That night, I sat alone in the kitchen, shell-shocked. My peaceful ten o’clock bedtime was ruined—Roger’s telly blared till midnight, Margaret chattered nonstop.
“Emily, why so quiet?” she asked, plonking down with tea. “Not used to company?”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“Pfft, the library can wait! Tell me, don’t you get lonely? No blokes around?”
I stiffened. “No.”
“Shame. A woman needs a man. Roger’s a handful, but he’d fight for me.”
“Margaret, I really need sleep.”
“Fine. Oh—can I borrow your washing machine tomorrow? And your face cream? My skin’s gone dry.”
By morning, chaos reigned. Roger coughed loudly over frying bacon, Margaret clattered pans.
“Morning, love! Made a proper fry-up!”
“I don’t eat breakfast at home,” I said, gulping coffee. “I’m late.”
“Rubbish! Sit down, you’re too thin!”
I fled, tripping over their suitcase in the hall.
At work, I couldn’t focus.
“You seem off today,” my boss remarked.
“Unexpected guests,” I muttered.
“Lovely! Bit of fun.”
If only she knew.
Home again, I barely recognised the place. Dirty plates piled up, laundry hung everywhere.
“Emily’s back!” Margaret chirped. “We’ve been tidying—washed up, fixed your telly.”
Roger had the TV volume deafening.
“Could you turn it down?” I asked.
“What? It’s fine. You’re just getting old.”
Dinner was torture. Roger chewed noisily, Margaret prattled. I missed my book-filled evenings.
“Can we borrow your car tomorrow?” she asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“Roger’s got jobcentre appointments. I’ll look for work.”
My old car was precious.
“I don’t lend it out.”
“Nothing’ll happen! Roger’s a careful driver.”
“He’s got a licence?”
“Course! Left it at home, though.”
They took it anyway, returning late with shopping bags.
“Runs smooth,” Roger said. “Bit thirsty on petrol.”
The tank was nearly empty.
“How far did you go?”
“Just errands. Big city, everything’s spread out.”
Later, Margaret unpacked beer and vodka.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Roger needs a drink now and then. Cheers him up.”
“I don’t allow alcohol here.”
“Don’t be a prude! He’s civilised.”
An hour later, Roger was drunk, shouting songs. I asked him to quieten down.
“What, not allowed to sing in my own home?” he slurred.
“It’s not your home.”
“The hell it isn’t! We’re family!”
Margaret tried to mediate, but Roger ranted about me being selfish, hoarding space. I locked myself in my room.
Next morning, Margaret apologised.
“Roger didn’t mean it. He’s stressed.”
“You need to find somewhere else.”
Her eyes welled up. “Where? We’ve got nothing!”
I wavered—pity versus exhaustion.
“Fine. But rules: quiet after ten, no alcohol, don’t touch my things.”
She agreed, but within days, Roger was drinking again, the TV roared, Margaret rearranged everything.
“Roger can’t change overnight!” she excused.
“And I should?”
“You’re flexible—you’re a woman.”
Realising compromise was impossible, I called my friend Sarah, a no-nonsense nurse, for help.
Next day, she “dropped by,” eyeing Roger’s beer.
“Staying long?”
“Till we’re sorted,” Margaret said.
“Odd. You know lodging without notice over three days breaks tenancy laws? Neighbours are complaining.”
Roger paled. “We’re quiet!”
“Bollocks. And why aren’t you working? Plenty of jobs if you’re not picky.”
That evening, Margaret fretted.
“Was Sarah serious about the police?”
“Maybe.”
Next morning, Roger announced, “We’ve decided to move on.”
Relief flooded me. “Where?”
“Dunno. Maybe a bedsit. Or other family.”
By afternoon, they’d packed.
“Don’t think us ungrateful,” Margaret said. “We’ll pay you back… eventually.”
“Keep the money. Just be well.”
As their taxi pulled away, silence descended—blissful, golden silence. I cleaned, reclaiming my space.
That night, sipping tea with a book, I savoured the peace. Sarah called later.
“Gone?”
“Thank you.”
“Bloody leeches. Family’s no excuse.”
She was right. The lesson
