“We’ll Just Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Shameless In-Laws, Changed the Locks, and Took …

You would not believe the morning I had it was like something out of a sitcom, only much less funny when youre living it. So, its Saturday, seven in the morning the *only* day I get to sleep in after a hellish week closing quarterly reports. And what happens? The intercom starts screaming; honestly, I thought the building was on fire. I glance at my phone, bleary-eyed, and who do I see on the screen but Emily you know, Jamess sister. She has that determined look, like shes about to kick down the doors at Buckingham Palace, and behind her are three wild-haired kids.

“James!” I yell not even pretending to be nice. “Its your lot. Go see to them!”

He staggers out of the bedroom, shorts on backwards he knows my tone means Ive officially had it up to here with his side of the family. While hes muttering into the intercom, Im already by the front door, arms folded, because this is *my* flat, my rules. I bought this three-bed in central London with my blood, sweat, and years of bargain meal deals, way before we ever put a ring on it, and the last thing I want is uninvited houseguests.

Next thing I know, the door flies open and the whole crew piles in. Emily shoves past me with her massive holdalls doesnt even say hello and drops them straight onto my lovely Italian tile.

“Thank heavens, we made it!” she huffs. “Sophie, stop gawping and go put the kettle on the kids are starving, weve been travelling for hours.”

“Emily,” I say, deadly calm, but James shrinks like hes hoping to vanish. “What, exactly, is happening?”

She blinks innocently. “What, James didnt tell you? Were having the whole place redone new pipes, tearing up the floors, the lot. Dust everywhere, its unlivable. Well just stay here for a week, let the kids get a bit settled. Its not like youre short on space, is it?”

I glare at James. He aims his gaze at the ceiling, as if it’s suddenly become fascinating.

“James?” I prompt.

He mumbles, “Sophie, they cant live in all that just a week, love, promise.”

So I lay out the law, sharp as you like: “One week. Only seven days. You sort your own food, the kids do *not* tear around like they own the place, nobody touches the walls, and my office is out of bounds. Quiet after ten, thats non-negotiable.”

Emily rolls her eyes, all mock-offended. “Blimey, Sophie, youre like a prison warden! Alright, alright, but dont expect us to sleep on the floor, yeah?”

And that, mate, was the start of hell.

One week turned into two, then three. My beautiful, magazine-worthy flat was morphing into a barn. The hallway became a shoe graveyard, the kitchen was a sticky war zone, and Emily took on the role of Lady of the Manor as if shed always lived there.

One night, she opens the fridge and sighs, “Sophie, what is this? You earn plenty, cant you stock up a bit for family? Kids need yoghurts, James and I could do with some decent meat for dinner.”

I dont even look up from my laptop. “Youve got a debit card, theres a Tesco round the corner, and deliveries are a thing.”

She slams the fridge so hard the milk shudders. “Youre such a miser. Cant take your money to the grave, you know.”

But that wasnt even the worst of it. I come home early one day and find her kids in my bedroom the eldest bouncing on my bed (the orthopedic mattress cost more than my first car, I swear), and the littlest one drawing all over my wall with my Tom Ford lipstick the limited edition. I nearly screamed the place down.

Emily comes running in, sees the mess, and only says, “Oh god, its just a wall. Itll wipe off. And the lippy isnt exactly gold, youll buy another. Actually, the builders are a nightmare, so well be here til summer. More the merrier, right?”

James just stands there, silent and useless. I had to leave the room before I said something I couldn’t take back or did something technically illegal.

Later, while Emilys in the shower and her phones on the table, a message flashes up, bold as you like: “Emily, rents been received for next month. Tenants are happy, can they stay through August?” And right after, a bank notification: “Payment received: £800.”

It all clicks. There *was* no renovation shed let out her tiny flat for easy money while living it up at mine, freeloading on my food and bills and lapping up the passive income. Absolutely shameless.

I snap a photo of her phone for evidence hands steady, actually feeling a bit icy-calm.

“James, come in here,” I call him in.

He comes in, takes one look at my phone, and goes white.

“Sophie, maybe its a mistake?”

“No, James,” I say, “the mistake is you not chucking them out ages ago. Tomorrow by lunch, either theyre gone, or *you* are. Your mum, your sister, her whole travelling circus all gone. Sort it.”

“But where will they go?”

“Dont care if its under Tower Bridge or The Ritz. Not my problem.”

The next morning, Emily waltzes out to go shopping for “really lovely boots” (bet its with the rent money). She leaves the kids with James hes taken the day off and as soon as the door slams behind her, I tell him:

“Take the kids out to the park. For ages.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to fumigate the place for parasites.”

Soon as theyre downstairs, I ring a locksmith then call our neighbourhood police officer.

No more Lady Bountiful routine time to reclaim whats mine.

“Maybe its a mistake?” Jamess voice from last night repeats in my head as the locksmith a beefy bloke with a faded tattoo swaps out the lock with a design fit for a bank vault.

“There you go,” he goes, “nobodys busting this open without a chainsaw.”

“Thats exactly what I need. Safe and sound.”

I transfer him enough to cover a nice dinner out, but honestly, the peace of mind is worth ten times as much. Next, I start packing. No sentimental folding, just stuff it in black bin bags bras, tights, toys, the lot, rammed in tight. Every single bit of cosmetic junk Emily had colonised my bathroom with went into the bags in one sweep.

Within forty minutes, there’s a mountain of bulging bin bags and a couple of battered suitcases outside the flat. Just as the lift pings and our friendly community constable shows up, badge and all.

“Morning officer,” I say, handing over my property documents. “Flats mine, Im registered here alone. Some people about to try forced entry arent on the books and have no right to be here. Please make a note.”

He leafs through, unimpressed. “Relatives?”

“Ex-relatives, hopefully,” I grin. “Slight domestic property dispute.”

An hour later, Emily arrives, bags of designer shopping in hand, looking smug as you like until she rounds the corner, spots the bags by my door, and sees me and the policeman waiting.

“What the hell is this?” she screeches, stabbing her finger at the bags. “Sophie, are you mental? These are my things!”

“Exactly,” I fold my arms. “Yours. Take them and jog on. The hotels closed.”

She tries to barge past, but the officer stops her. “Do you live here? Got proof of address?”

“I Im Jamess sister! Were only visiting!” She turns on me, face blotchy. “What are you playing at, you cow? Wheres James? Im calling him!”

“Go on,” I smile. “He wont pick up. Hes out explaining to your little darlings why their mum is such a budding entrepreneur.”

She dials, rings, hangs up nothing. James has probably finally grown a spine, or maybe just realised Im not bluffing. Shes fuming, shouting, “You cant do this! Weve nowhere to go! Ive got kids!”

“Dont lie,” I step forward, meeting her glare. “Give my regards to Marina and ask if the tenants want your flat through August, or if youll have to kick them out and go live there yourself.”

She sags, totally deflated. I drop my voice for the finishing touch:

“You take your bags now and go. If I see you or your offspring anywhere near my building again, Im reporting you for tax dodging and possibly theft my gold rings gone missing and the police might just check those bags, you never know.”

My ring is safely in my locked drawer, but Emily doesnt need to know that. She goes sheet white, her foundation suddenly chalky.

“You evil” she hisses. “God will judge you.”

“Gods busy,” I snip. “And now, so am I. And now my flats finally mine again, too.”

She scrambles to call a taxi, hands shaking, the officer looking on, clearly thinking Id made his day easy. When the lift doors close on her and her pile of stuff, I turn to him:

“Cheers for your help.”

“Just make sure you keep those locks up to scratch,” he grins.

Once the new lock clicks shut, I can finally breathe. The cleaning companys got the bleach out, the smell reassuring as anything, and soon, the last stain of chaos is gone.

James comes back two hours later, alone. Hed handed the kids back to Emily as she was packing up. He peers around, still sheepish.

“Shes gone,” he says.

“I know.”

“You shouldve heard her screaming about you”

“Dont care what rats squeak when the ships leaving port.”

I sat in my kitchen, finally enjoying a hot, strong mug of coffee in my favourite mug undamaged. No more lipstick graffiti on the walls, just peace and my own groceries in the fridge.

“Did you know about her letting her place out?” I ask, not looking up.

“No! I swear, Sophie, if I had”

“If you had, youd have kept schtum,” I sigh. “Listen carefully, James: one more stunt from your family, and your suitcases will be right next to theirs. Got it?”

He nods, properly frightened. He knows I mean it this time.

I take a sip perfect coffee, hot, strong, and, best of all, enjoyed in the utter, blessed quiet of my own home.

Call it a crown, but it fits just right.