**Diary Entry – 13th October**

I trudged home, legs moving on autopilot after the longest day—two back-to-back meetings, a row with a supplier, and reports I had to redo because the intern messed up. My head throbbed, thoughts jumbled. All I wanted was to kick off these wretched heels, shower, and collapse into bed.

Then my phone buzzed. Reluctantly, I fished it out—probably John, my husband, asking what to cook for dinner. But the screen flashed an unknown number. Normally, I’d ignore it, but something told me to answer.

“Hello?” I mumbled, still walking.

“Where the hell are you, bloody eejit? We’ve been outside your flat an hour, starving to death!” barked a rough voice.

I froze mid-step. The world carried on—people swerved around me, oblivious—but I stood there, stunned. That voice, sharp with those unmistakable tones—John’s aunt, Margaret.

“…Pardon?” I managed.

“Deaf now, are ya?” she huffed. “We’re here—me, your mother-in-law, and bloody Simon. Did ya forget?”

I frowned, scrambling for memories. No birthdays, no holidays. No warning.

“Margaret, I had no idea you were coming,” I said carefully.

“What d’ya mean, no idea? John sorted it last week! Supposed to tell ya!”

I took a deep breath. Of course. Another of John’s “surprises.” Always dodging responsibility.

“He didn’t mention it,” I said flatly. “I’m still at work. Be home in forty.”

“Forty?!” Her voice sharpened. “We’re famished! Can’t ya hurry?”

Anger simmered in my chest. They turn up unannounced, snap demands, and expect me to drop everything? What if I’d stayed at a friend’s? Or been away for work?

“Listen, I didn’t know you were coming,” I said, straining for calm. “Give me time.”

“Haven’t got time!” she snapped. “Simon’s about to chew the walls!”

Simon—John’s thirty-five-year-old cousin who still lived with his mum and couldn’t boil an egg.

“Where’s John?” I bit out.

“How should I know? Won’t answer. Prob’ly working late,” she grunted. “Ya comin’ or not?”

I hung up. Heart pounding, I dialled John. Straight to voicemail. Tried again—same. Classic. Avoiding unpleasant conversations, as usual.

*So he knows*, I thought bitterly. *And left me to deal with it.*

The phone rang again—Mum-in-law, Patricia.

“Luv, you nearly home?” she simpered. “We’re freezing out here, and Margaret’s in a right state.”

“Patricia, I wasn’t told you were coming,” I said, forcing politeness. “John never mentioned it.”

“Really?” She feigned shock. “He swore he’d arranged it! Oh well—hurry along, darling. Margaret’s unbearable when she’s hungry.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to ten. Again—*I* had to fix a mess I didn’t make.

*Why am I responsible for everyone else’s incompetence?*

Suddenly, I wasn’t just angry at them—I was furious at the whole situation. The expectation that I’d drop everything to cater to their whims.

“Patricia, I’m heading home, but I’m not cooking straight away,” I said firmly. “I’ve had a long day. There’s a café round the corner if you’re starving.”

“Oh, come now!” Her voice dripped offence. “We’re family! Besides, Simon’s allergic to café food.”

I nearly laughed. Last time, he’d inhaled a kebab like a man possessed.

It hit me—they were used to everyone bending over backwards. Dark clouds loomed overhead. The brewing storm mirrored my exhaustion.

*Why should I rush? Why does John get to hide while I handle his mess?*

Then—a reckless thought.

*Why not?*

I turned on my heel, striding toward the cosy Italian down the road. Divine carbonara, tiramisu I’d eyed for weeks. Pushing through the door, I chose a window table.

“Evening,” the waitress smiled. “What can I get you?”

“Carbonara, glass of white, and tiramisu for after,” I said, realising how ravenous I was.

My phone lit up—Margaret. Ignored. Then Patricia. Then a text from John: *Where are you? Mum says you’re not picking up. They’re waiting.*

I smirked. *Now* he surfaces.

*“Working late. Back whenever,”* I replied, silencing my phone.

The wine arrived. One sip, and tension ebbed. So what if they waited? So what if they sorted themselves? The world wouldn’t end.

The phone buzzed relentlessly. I powered it off.

For the first time in ages, I felt it—guilt mixed with liberation. A friend once said, *“You keep solving problems that aren’t yours.”*

Why had it taken this long to see? The running, the apologising, the people-pleasing—for what? To be called a *“bloody eejit”*?

The pasta was heavenly—or maybe it was the freedom of choosing *me* first. I savoured every bite, lingered over coffee. A small act, but my chest felt lighter.

I did go home eventually. Braced for a row, I found silence. Just takeaway containers dumped by the door—their petty revenge.

John slouched on the sofa, feigning interest in telly. He stiffened when I walked in.

“Finally gracing us,” he muttered, but the usual bluster was gone.

I hung up my coat, switched on my phone—dozens of missed calls, escalating texts. Patricia played victim: *“How could you?”* Margaret raged: *“Selfish!”*

“Seen these?” John nodded at my phone. “Mum rang me nonstop. Turned up to find ’em huddled outside like vagrants!”

I studied him—uneasy, almost… wary. This wasn’t the smug “head of household” I knew.

“You crossed a line,” he tried weakly. “They’re family.”

I sat opposite him, weirdly calm. “Family doesn’t mean I tolerate disrespect. Your aunt called me names, and you didn’t even warn me.”

“I meant it as a surprise,” he mumbled.

“Surprises are flowers or a massage,” I scoffed. “Not ambushes and demands.”

He blinked, thrown.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Next time they visit, *you* handle the food. I’m not a maid.”

“Mum’s livid,” he ventured. “Maybe just apologise?”

I shook my head, opening a grocery app.

“The hell are you doing?” he asked as I loaded the cart with gourmet items.

“Helping your family.” I entered Patricia’s address. “Since I *must* feed them.”

His eyes bulged at the total. “They’ll go spare!”

“Why?” I tapped *‘place order.’* “They wanted food. There it is.”

He stared at me—fear, grudging admiration. I’d never stood up to his family before.

An hour later, silence hung thick. I bathed, changed, while John eyed his phone like a bomb.

It rang at eleven. Patricia, spluttering: *“What’s this? Some delivery lad demanding £300!”*

“You said you were hungry,” I said sweetly. “Bon appétit.”

Sputtering silence, then muttered conferring.

“Listen, dear,” Patricia cooed, “let’s forget this silly row.”

“Gladly,” I said. “Just warn me next time. And no more insults.”

John gaped when I hung up. “Can’t believe you did that.”

“Can’t believe I didn’t sooner.”

The fallout was revelatory. Margaret sent a stiff apology. Simon—social media ghost—suddenly liked my photos. Patricia now asked, *“Is Charlotte alright with this?”*

But the shocker? John. Started checking plans with me. Helped around the house—something he’d deemed “unmanly.”

A month later, Patricia called again. John paled: “Mum wants to visit this weekend.”

I shrugged. “If they behave, fine.”

He stammered into the phone: “Next week, yeah? Need to prep.”

Hanging up, he exhaled. “Best not test you. God knows what you’ll do.”

I laughed. Things *had* changed. Now *he* discouraged their visits, made excuses. Even Margaret, turning up months later with chocolates, hesitated: “Hope we’re not intruding?”

Watching her—once all bluster—now tiptoeing, I bit back a smile. One act of defiance, and suddenlyI smiled and stepped aside, realizing that sometimes all it takes is one firm “no” to turn resentment into respect.