“I refuse to be a servant to strangers, no matter their name.”
“Im not here to be anyones maid, even with their surname tacked on.”
That evening, after an exhausting shift at the chemists, I dragged myself into the lift, dreaming only of a scalding shower, a worn-out jumper, and a quiet cuppa. But before I could even kick off my shoes, my husband, Oliver, rang. His voice, smooth and unbothered, announced:
“Get ready, Emilyweve got company tonight. My sister, Poppy, is staying over for a few days!”
A hollow gap opened inside me. This wasnt a request or a discussionjust a statement, as if my time no longer belonged to me. I was stunned. Which Poppy? Why had no one mentioned her? Ah yes, his younger sister, whom Id never met, never even texted. All I knew were scraps of storiesa countryside girl from the Yorkshire Dales, still in sixth form, apparently quiet and resourceful, as farm girls tend to be. But hearing about someone is one thing; having them turn up unannounced in your flat is another.
Oliver, as if it were nothing, was already nattering away with her in the kitchen when I arrived. They were sipping tea, and Poppy looked perfectly at home, like shed lived there for years. After supper, she began snooping around the flat with poorly hidden curiositypoking into every room as if it were a museum exhibit, lingering especially in our bedroom, which she clearly fancied. She even snapped a few selfies, rummaged through my skincare, and tried on my jewellery. I stood frozen.
“Poppy, excuse me, but this is my private space. You walked in without asking and touched my things. I dont like that,” I said, calm but firm.
She ducked her head, playing the innocent:
“I didnt think youd mind I just wanted to see how you lived.”
I didnt answer and went to shower. When I got ready for bed, I found every last teabag gonetheyd drunk the lot. No tea, no peace, and worst of all, no understanding. Before turning in, Oliver added:
“Maybe think about what we could do with Poppy this weekend. Shell be bored stiff on her own!”
I bit back a sigh. Why should I rearrange my plans for a girl Id just met? Id pencilled in a day of shopping, lunch, and a stroll with my best friend, whom I hadnt seen in nearly a year. And now? Cancel everything for a teenager even her own mum couldnt be bothered to chaperone?
The next morning, while I was still half-asleep, Poppy was already done up in glittery jeans, phone in hand, waiting by the door.
“So, are we off? I fancied hitting the high street, maybe grabbing a bite after?”
I looked at her and said evenly:
“Listen, Poppy, youve got GPS on your phone. Heres a spare keywander wherever you like. But please, dont bother me.”
“What?!” She gaped. “I thought you and Oliver were taking me out. Ive got no cashMum didnt give me a penny, I was counting on you lot…”
“We can walk about without spending. And if youre peckish, you know where the fridge is.”
Silence. She sat at the kitchen table, sulking. I grabbed my things and left for the high street. Simply because I refused to feel like a stranger in my own home.
By evening, the whole family had descended. Too late, I realised it was a kangaroo court: why had I upset the poor little lamb, why wouldnt I fork over money, why was I so selfish? No one let me get a word in. They all shouted. Poppy, in the other room, played the martyr, the victim of my supposed cruelty.
I let them finish, then said:
“Im not a servant. I owe no one anything. Poppy means nothing to me. I didnt invite her. My wages barely cover my own bills. If youre so keen on your niece, sort it out among yourselves.”
Oliver stayed quiet. Only in the dead of night, once everyone had gone, did he murmur:
“Youre right I didnt want to fall out with them.”
End of story. Im not selfish. Im just a woman who demands respect. And if anyone thinks “family” means free labour and servitude, let them look in the mirror and ask if theyd welcome their own life being invaded without so much as a by-your-leave.
