**Diary 12May**
It began with Ethels tirade as we were clearing the dishes after dinner. What sort of ruffians have been here? Call your family over and have them sort this mess out, she snapped, slamming her hands on the kitchen table. Im fed up washing the sheets after your mates every night. Theyve been staying over at our cottage as if it were a hostel.
Georgemy husbandshrugged, Your mother rang earlier. She and her side are planning a weekend barbecue.
Ethel replied dryly, Good for them. What are we supposed to do? I never liked my motherinlaw, Martha.
He tried to smooth things over. They just want to use the cottage; we dont have one of our own, and Ive got a garage shift on Saturday. He said it as if it were obvious. I told her we cant go away this weekend, so she asked for the spare keys.
With a sigh, Ethel gave in, though she later regretted it. When we finally drove out to the cottage the following weekend, the scene that greeted us was something out of a disaster film. Berries lay strewn across the lawn, the floorboards were filthy, a lone pot of ancient soup sat on the hob, and the kitchen curtains had been ripped from the windows. It was as if a herd of cattle had trampled through. My parentsinlaw are already in their sixties, yet they seemed to think the place was theirs as well.
I told George everything that had irked Ethel.
What sort of ruffians? she repeated, her voice trembling with frustration. Im not going to tidy up after them. Im already washing the linens after your friends, who treat our cottage like a hotel.
He tried to reassure, Just throw it in the washing machine, spin it out, and hang it to dry.
Ethel snapped, Next time you do it all yourself! Are you happy with how our cottage looks?
He said nothing more, and the silence stretched between us. Wed only been married two years, a whirlwind romance that now felt a little rushed. We had no children, our days a blur of work and house chores, weekends spent either strolling in the park or driving out to the countryside with friends.
Everything shifted when Ethels mother, Margaret, remarried and moved to another town, leaving the cottage to Ethel. Suddenly, every branch of Georges family seemed to sprout up at the gates. Cousins, aunts, even Georges grandmother turned up, all eager for a taste of freshair barbecues. The cottage became a revolving door of relatives, each bringing their own toiletries, slippers, and, on one occasion, my sisterinlaw, Maria, who hauled her boss along for a weekend retreat.
They all stayed overnight, while George manned the grill as usual. I grew weary of the endless stream of guests, yet I didnt want to alienate his family. I began to look forward to the weekend, hoping for some calm.
When George and I first married, his mother was already advanced in years and had given birth to her son quite late. She also had a daughter, Maria, ten years his senior, who hailed from a small village and treated everything as communal property. Maria and Martha would strip the cottage of everythingcreams, shampoos, even my own house slippers. Then, without asking me, they phoned asking for the cottage keys again, this time to bring Marias boss for a relaxing weekend and some ribs.
George, remembering Ethels fury from the previous visit, still said, Well give mother the keys. He didnt bother to mention Ethels protest.
Realising I had to act, I called my own mother, Helen, and complained. Ill give you a call back, she replied curtly. About twenty minutes later I phoned back, claiming that my sister and her husband would be staying at the cottage for a while. Dont worry, AuntOlive will sort it out, I added.
AuntOlivewho had taken me on a few dubious summer trips as a childwas the very person I dreaded. Yet she called that evening, her voice full of mock concern. Whats the matter, dear? Youve been so quiet. Should I be gentle or firm? she laughed, clearly delighted at the drama.
I asked, Did you tell them the cottage belongs to me?
She responded, I cant recall, but theyre convinced its theirs.
Dont fret, love. Well handle it the right way, she assured.
The next Sunday, Marthas voice crackled through the phone, furious. You sold the cottage? Wheres the money? Why didnt you tell us?
It turned out that on Saturday Maria, her boss, and Marthas husband had all arrived at the cottage, already setting up a grill for a fiveperson barbecue. When I stepped out, I was met by the imposing figure of Gwendoline Parker, the lady who owned the property. Who are you? she demanded, her tone icy. Im the owner here; where did you get the keys?
Maria stammered, trying to explain the family ties and the handedover keys, while Gwendoline stared at her, displeased. In the end, my aunt was politely asked to leave, the keys were reclaimed, and a warning was issued: Dont come back with someone elses keys.
From a distance I heard Marthas shouted accusations over the receiver. George stood mute, unable to interject. Hand the phone to your wife, he said finally, passing the handset to me. The cottage isnt yours! Martha declared dramatically.
I tried to stay calm. Did you ask us first? Do you think everything around us belongs to you?
She retorted, Do you realize Maria invited her boss? If her company downsizes, itll be on your conscience.
I fought back, AuntOlive is just there for a holiday, you never asked me. Find another place if you need one.
George, shaken, muttered, I wont go back there again, nor will my relatives.
It was the first serious argument wed ever had. George was hurt, Maria lost her job, and the tension grew. I began to think perhaps I wasnt as attached to them as Id pretended. Our marriage seemed to be reaching a dead end.
I told my mother, I think Im leaving George.
She replied, Youre an adult now; decide for yourself. Where will you live? Ive let my flat go. Stay with AuntOlive.
Thanks, I suppose, I said, surprised. Ill probably rent a place.
I filed for separation, moved into a rented flat, and stopped visiting the cottage altogether.
*Lesson:* When you let others treat your home as a public park, you lose not only the space but also the sense of belonging. Boundaries arent selfish; theyre essential for a healthy partnership.
