I’ve always been a hard worker. My parents raised me to believe that nothing worth having comes easy, and I took that to heart. Through college, I worked two part-time jobs to afford tuition.
When I graduated, I poured everything I had into my career, long shifts, late nights, and endless overtime. My friends called me a workaholic, but I didn’t care. I had a goal: to one day own a house that was truly mine.
After years of saving, I finally did it. My dream house, a beautiful, sunlit two-story home with a wraparound porch and a little garden in the back, was mine. I’d fallen in love with it the moment I saw it.
It wasn’t enormous or fancy, but it was everything I wanted: peaceful, comfortable, and, most importantly, bought entirely with my own money. When my husband, David, and I moved in, I felt like all the sacrifices had been worth it. David had always been supportive of my career, even if his own job didn’t bring in much.
He worked at a small marketing firm, but I never judged. We were a team, or so I thought. For the first few months, life was perfect.
We spent weekends decorating, planting flowers, and hosting dinners for friends. It felt like the home was finally ours, or rather, mine and his, even though legally and financially, the deed was in my name. I didn’t think that detail mattered much at the time.
That changed the day his family showed up. It happened on a quiet Saturday morning. I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard the unmistakable sound of a car door slamming, then another, and another.
I peered out the window and froze. There they were: David’s parents, his younger sister, and his older brother’s entire family, complete with luggage. “David?” I called, my voice already uneasy.
He appeared from the hallway, still in his robe, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on?”
Before I could answer, the front door burst open, and his mother, Helen, walked in with her arms wide. “Surprise!” she sang.
“We’re here!”
I blinked. “You… you’re here?”
“Yes!” she said cheerfully, setting a large bag on the floor. “We thought we’d come stay for a while.
You’ve got all this space now, and we’ve been dying to see the new house!”
David smiled awkwardly. “Mom, we were going to invite you guys over next weekend—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Helen interrupted, waving a hand. “Family doesn’t need an invitation.”
Within minutes, the rest of them streamed in like a parade.
His father grunted as he dragged in a cooler. His brother, Luke, is carrying an enormous duffel bag. His sister, Melanie, was already FaceTiming someone to “show off her brother’s fancy new place.”
And all I could do was stand there, clutching my coffee mug, too stunned to speak.
At first, I tried to be polite. After all, they were family. Maybe they’d stay for a night or two — an unplanned visit, sure, but not the end of the world.
But by the second day, it was clear they weren’t leaving. Helen had claimed the guest bedroom downstairs “because stairs hurt her knees.” Luke and his wife took the upstairs guest room. Melanie set up camp in the study, which was supposed to be my home office.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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