“I refuse to be a servant to strangers, no matter their name.”
“I’m not here to be anyones maid, not even with their fancy surname.”
That evening, after a gruelling shift at the pharmacy, I dragged myself into the lift, dreaming only of a hot shower, comfy pyjamas, and a quiet cup of tea. But before I could even change, my husband, Oliver, called out in that infuriatingly calm tone of his:
“Get ready, Emilyweve got guests tonight. My sister, Poppy, is coming to stay for a few days!”
A hollow feeling settled in my chest. This wasnt a request or a discussionjust a flat declaration that my time no longer belonged to me. I was stunned. *Which* Poppy? Why had no one mentioned this? Ah yes, his younger sister, whom Id never met or even exchanged a text with. All I knew were a few vague anecdotesa countryside girl from near Manchester, still in sixth form, apparently well-behaved and resourceful, as farm kids tend to be. But hearing about someone is one thing; having them turn up unannounced in your home is quite another.
Oliver, blissfully oblivious, was already chatting with her in the kitchen when I arrived. They were sipping tea like old pals, and Poppy looked perfectly at ease, as if she owned the place. After dinner, she began snooping around the flat with poorly disguised curiositywandering into every room like a tourist in a museum, lingering especially in *our* bedroom, which she clearly fancied. She even staged a little photoshoot, rummaged through my skincare, and tried on some of my jewellery. I stood frozen.
“Poppy, excuse me, but this is my personal space. You walked in without asking and touched my things. I dont appreciate 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 reply and went for my shower. At bedtime, I discovered theyd drunk *all* the tea bagsnot a single one left. No tea, no peace, and above all, no common sense. As I climbed into bed, Oliver added cheerfully:
“Maybe think about what we could do with Poppy this weekend. Shell be bored otherwise!”
I stifled a sigh. Why should I rearrange my plans for a girl Id just met? Id scheduled a day of shopping, lunch, and a walk with my best friend, whom I hadnt seen in nearly a year. And now? Cancel everything for a teenager even her own mother couldnt be bothered to accompany?
The next morning, while I was still contemplating breakfast, Poppy was already dolled up in a bedazzled denim outfit, phone in hand, waiting by the door.
“So, are we going? I fancied the shopping centre, maybe a nice lunch after?”
I looked at her and said evenly:
“Listen, Poppy, youve got a phone with GPS. Heres a spare keygo wherever you like. But please, dont pester me.”
*”What?!”* She gaped. “I thought you and Oliver would take me. Ive no moneyMum didnt give me any, I was counting on you”
“We can stroll without spending. And if youre hungry, you know where the fridge is.”
Silence. She slumped into a kitchen chair, sulking. I grabbed my bag and left for the shopping centre. 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 full-blown inquisition: Why had I upset poor Poppy? Why wouldnt I give her money? Why was I so selfish? No one let me get a word in. They all shouted over each other. Poppy, in the other room, played the martyr, the victim of my alleged cruelty.
I listened, 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* life. If youre so concerned about your niece, sort her stay out among yourselves.”
Oliver stayed quiet. Only late that night, after everyone had left, 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, theyd better look in the mirror and ask if theyd tolerate their own privacy being trampled.
