Clare’s life was being torn apart by visitors… until she learned to say “no.”
The moment Clare forced a smile and waved at another carload of so-called “friends” driving away, resentment boiled inside her. She wanted to scream, smash plates, and shut the door on the world. Instead, she gritted her teeth and muttered to her husband:
“If you invite anyone else without asking me, I’ll kick you out too.”
“I didn’t invite them, Clare,” James said, shrugging. “Tom insisted. What was I supposed to do?”
“That’s the problem! They treat our house like a free holiday lodge. We built this place for us—not for every freeloader who fancies a countryside getaway. Every weekend, it’s someone else. I dread answering the phone because I know what they’ll ask—or worse, they just turn up!”
Their home stood at the edge of a pine forest outside Manchester—a grand brick house with a loft, a sunlit veranda, a garden, a sauna, a gazebo, and a pool. They’d built it all themselves, dreaming of peace and quiet. Instead, Clare spent weekends scrambling in the kitchen, dodging other people’s children, and enduring her mother-in-law’s endless complaints.
“They bring food,” James argued. “The fresh air is good for everyone.”
“Especially your sister,” Clare snapped. “She dumped her boys here all summer without lifting a finger. My mum’s slaving over meals while yours lounges in the hammock. And those kids aren’t even our responsibility!”
“Keep it down, they’ll hear you—”
“Good! Maybe they’ll realize they’re not welcome. My mum’s knees are shot, and you complain she struggles with soup?”
“She does what she can. My mother lives with us full-time. And the kids—she’s the one who brought them. Her grandkids. I don’t mind cooking, but why is it always us?”
Clare yanked the veranda curtains shut, exhaling sharply.
“It’s not even the family that kills me—it’s the uninvited guests. Calls start on Thursday, then they’re banging on the gate by Saturday. Sarah shows up demanding, ‘Where’s the BBQ? When’s the sauna?’ Why can’t she go to her own cottage? Oh, right—because she’d actually have to work there.”
“You’ve gotten petty,” James sighed.
“And you’ve got no backbone. Meanwhile, I’m scrubbing ketchup off your nephews’ shirts after they ‘cooked sausages in the campfire’—then tried bathing in it!”
She slammed the bathroom door. Her mum peeked in, hearing the commotion.
“What’s wrong?”
“You really need to ask? We’re cleaning, cooking, breaking our backs, while strangers’ kids run wild in our yard!”
“It’s your home, love. Your rules. Tell them straight—you weren’t expecting visitors.”
“And if they’re already here?”
“Perfect time to say, ‘We’ve got plans. Fancy shoveling manure?’ Or weeding the garden. Let the men chop wood or fix the roof. Watch how quickly they lose interest in ‘country retreats.’”
“Mum, that’s awkward.”
“Then stop complaining. But next time, I’m not lifting a ladle. Not a single chopped carrot. Enough’s enough.”
By Friday, Clare switched off her phone. On Saturday, she was picking raspberries when a car pulled up. “Please, not us,” she prayed. A door slammed, then familiar laughter—Sarah and her husband. Again.
“Coming!” James called from inside, meeting Clare’s furious glare.
“Sorry!” he whispered. “They invited themselves. Just for the day…”
Clare forced a tight “Come in” while wishing the earth would swallow her. The guests raved about the scenery, plucked raspberries straight from the bushes, and sighed over the “fresh air.” That evening, as they lounged in the gazebo gorging on barbecue, Sarah’s husband hinted at using the sauna.
Then Clare’s mother stood. Her voice was calm but firm.
“Mark, weren’t you ‘too busy’ to help build that sauna? Now you fancy using it? It wasn’t built for guests. And no one’s scrubbed it after you lot.”
“I was tied up back then—”
“Free now, then? You treat this place like a hotel. We never get a weekend off. Would you like randoms traipsing into your home, expecting meals, clean sheets, and a spotless sauna?”
“You’re exaggerating,” Mark mumbled.
“Am I? Here’s an idea—the plot next door’s for sale. Build your own sauna.”
“And ours is off-limits,” Clare added. “Sorry.”
The guests left in a huff, but for the first time, Clare felt relief. Her mother hugged her.
“Well done. This is your home. You make the rules.”
From then on, Clare answered calls with, “No, we’re spending time as a family.” If visitors showed up unannounced, she lied: “We’re about to leave.” Some still wheedled:
“Can’t we just sit on the lawn? We’ll leave the key under the stone!”
“What if there’s a fire? Or a theft? No.”
By August, the freeloaders vanished—until James’s mother announced:
“Darling! Surprise! My sister’s bringing the grandchildren next week. I’ve already told them everything. Tickets are booked.”
“No,” Clare said coldly. “This is my home. You should’ve asked. I’m done hosting your relatives. Tell them to refund the tickets.”
“How could you? They’re children! Have you no heart?”
“No. Mine’s reserved for me and my mum. Other people’s kids aren’t my problem.”
“You’re so… cruel. Where’s my medicine?”
For days, her mother-in-law sulked, dousing herself in lavender oil, but Clare held firm. Now, she only invited guests she wanted—once a month at most.
The day she strode past her mother-in-law without flinching, and her mum whispered, “That’s my girl,” Clare finally felt it: her home was her castle.
She’d learned to say “no.” And she’d never let anyone trample her boundaries again.
