**Diary Entry**
Four years separate me and my brother—he’s the elder. Growing up, we had an amicable relationship—not close, but not hostile either. We lived quietly in a three-bed flat in Manchester with our parents. I was still at university when my brother graduated and announced his engagement to his former classmate, Sophie. Childhood sweethearts, destiny, all that.
Well, love is love. Mum and I saw straight away: this girl wasn’t the modest sort. She wanted a wedding straight out of a film—designer dress, a riverside venue, vows beneath an arch, swans gliding past, everything in “champagne and lavender.” Right. Only our parents aren’t millionaires; they’re pensioners, even if still working. They offered to pay for the honeymoon—the rest was up to them. Sophie’s parents shrugged too. They gifted her a throw blanket and a modest vase.
But my brother decided his princess deserved a fairy tale. He took out a loan—sky-high interest, no consultation with the bank or our parents. Just strolled in and declared, “We’ll handle it ourselves.” Bravo. Just don’t come crying later.
The wedding was lavish. Instagram flooded with photos. The honeymoon was no different. Honestly, I don’t know when she found time to relax between posting a thousand snaps a day.
They came back, rented a flat—lasted two months. Then my brother turned up, shamefaced: “It’s tight, everything’s going on the loan, we’re skint.” So our parents suggested they stay with us. Three bedrooms—should be fine. The next day, they were at the door with suitcases. Clearly, they’d planned it.
At first, it was tolerable. Mum and Dad worked till evening, so did I. My brother, too. But his wife? Well, that’s when the performance began.
Sophie didn’t work. Claimed she “couldn’t find the right role.” By “right,” she meant a CEO’s chair and a six-figure salary. Spent her days lounging on the sofa, glued to her phone. Video calls with friends. Not once did she buy so much as a loaf of bread. Not a penny toward bills. No attempt to help.
I cleaned. Mum cooked. Dad carried heavy bags. And her? A mountain of laundry sat for weeks—until Mum took pity. Left dishes unwashed after meals. Wouldn’t even rinse a cup. Sat there like the Queen herself.
At first, I dropped hints, then spoke plainly. No use. Mum pleaded, “Just bear with it. He’s your brother, after all.” But it wore on me—especially when I realised they weren’t on their last pound. Just saving at our expense. Meanwhile, Sophie refreshed her wardrobe weekly, weekends packed with cafés, cinemas, manicures—living the high life.
One day, I snapped. Told my brother straight:
“Nobody here signed up to wait on your wife. She lives under our roof, eats our food, uses our utilities—and won’t even say thanks. No help, no respect.”
He exploded. Shouted that Sophie was “sensitive,” I was “jealous,” “bitter and single.” Even demanded we give them the largest room—”he had a right to the space.”
That’s when Dad looked up from his paper.
“Since when is this your right, son? You’re a guest. Act like one. And your ‘princess’ hasn’t lifted a finger. Enough. Move out.”
Mum backed him. For the first time in ages, I breathed easy.
They packed up. Stayed with friends, then found a one-bed somewhere. My brother blocked me everywhere. Apparently, it’s my fault they were kicked out.
Now? Peace. The house is warm again. No sideways glances at dinner, no one strutting down the hall like royalty. We’re a family again—just without the freeloaders.
Was I wrong to stand my ground? Or right not to let them take the mick? Bet plenty have been there. Let them get comfortable, and next thing you know—they’re taking the piss.
