**Diary Entry Setting Boundaries: How My Husbands Ultimatum Changed Everything**
My husband, William, comes from a sprawling, loud familythree brothers and two sisters, all married with children of their own. Yet without fail, they descend upon our home like clockwork, never just for a quick cup of tea but always for full-blown feasts. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the most obscure bank holidaystheyll seize any excuse. And its always at our place. Youve got the room! theyd cheer, as if our hard-earned, mortgage-heavy cottage in the Cotswolds, with its garden, barbecue, and driveway, was their personal holiday retreat.
At first, I didnt mind. Growing up an only child, I adored the noisethe laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional tipsy uncle butchering a pub song. But over time, it turned into servitude. Have you ever roasted a joint for fifteen ravenous in-laws while they lounge about? The women would flop onto the patio chairs with their fizz the second they arrived; the men would heroically man the grill. Meanwhile, Id be elbow-deep in potato peelings, my hair frizzed like a scolded cat, my nice dress swapped for a gravy-splattered apron. William would poke his head in, guilt plastered across his face: Need help? Id force a smile. Ive got it.
The real kicker? Emerging, flushed and frazzled, to find them all dressed to the nines like they were at Royal Ascot, while I looked like Id been dragged through a hedge backwards. All I wanted was one evening where I could sip my wine undisturbed, not ferry plates like a harried waitress.
After these ordeals, William would quietly tackle the mountain of dishes while I collapsed into bed. He was knackered toohis eyes begging for a lazy Sunday with a takeaway curry and mindless telly. But neither of us wanted to make a fuss. Until his brother called.
Were doing my birthday at yours, yeah? Same as usual.
William hung up, turned to me, and dropped the bombshell: Tomorrow, you wake up, put on that posh dress you never wear, fix your hair, maybe even dab on some lipstick. But the kitchen? Hands off. Not a single finger.
I stared. But what about?
Nope. They can bring their own spread. Youre not their caterer. We deserve a break too.
The next day, the clan arrived, arms loaded with Waitrose bags of meat and Marks & Spencer puddingsonly to find an eerily empty table. The awkward hush was golden. William, ever the diplomat, announced: New rules. Pitch in or take your parties elsewhere. Were done being your B&B.
Cue stunned whispers and the quietest celebration in history. But miracles do happenthe next gathering? Hosted by his sister. Turns out they *can* manage. They just needed a little nudge.
