When my in-laws’ apartment flooded, I didn’t hesitate to offer them a place to stay. Family comes first, right? But six weeks later, my home didn’t feel like mine anymore. It had become their personal hotel—and I was the stressed-out host.
At first, it seemed manageable. My wife, Julia, got a frantic call from her mother, Vera, about a burst pipe. “Of course, they can stay here,” I said. “Just a week, maybe two,” Julia added. That word—week—made me nod. I could handle a week.
Then came the entourage: Vera, her husband Frank, Julia’s brother Kevin, and Aunt Marie—four extra adults, luggage overflowing, invading every corner of the house. The living room became a maze, the guest room a storage unit. I reminded myself it was temporary.
Then came the entourage: Vera, her husband Frank, Julia’s brother Kevin, and Aunt Marie—four extra adults, luggage overflowing, invading every corner of the house. The living room became a maze, the guest room a storage unit. I reminded myself it was temporary.
