I Came Home To My Future Mil Moving Her Whole Family Into My Apartment. She Told Me I’d Have To Sleep On The Couch So Her Grandkids Could Have My Bedroom. Aita For Kicking Them Out In The Rain?

The Sound of an Intruder

The pallet knife was still in my hand when I heard the key turn in the lock. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined it.

No one had a key to this loft except me. My grandfather had given me this space 30 years ago when I was just starting out as an interior designer.

He’d converted this warehouse himself brick by brick, and every corner still held traces of his artist’s soul. But there it was again, the unmistakable sound of someone entering my home.

I set down the pallet knife next to the painting I’d been restoring, one of Grandpa Joe’s originals from the 70s, and walked toward the entryway. My bare feet were silent on the concrete floors as I rounded the corner and stopped dead.

Patricia stood in my doorway directing two men carrying boxes behind her. Behind her, my fiancé David’s brother, James, was herding two children and what appeared to be a very large dog into my living room.

The rabbit in the carrier was just the cherry on top of this disaster Sunday.

“Patricia,” my voice came out higher than I intended. “What’s going on?”

Family Comes First

David’s mother turned to me with that smile I’d learned to distrust over the past year. It was the one that said she’d already made a decision and I’d just have to accept it.

“Elena, perfect timing,” she said. “I was just getting the boys settled in.”

“Settled in?” I repeated, my brain trying to catch up with the scene unfolding before me. “What do you mean settled in? Didn’t David call you?”

Patricia frowned, though I could tell she wasn’t actually concerned.

“James needs a place for the summer,” she said. “The divorce was finalized last week and he has the boys for 6 weeks. I told David your loft was perfect, all this space for just one person.”

“Just one person.” The words hit like a slap.

“Patricia, this is my home, my workspace,” I said. “I have clients coming.”

“Oh, you can work around it,” she waved a hand dismissively. “Family comes first, Elena, surely you understand that.”

James gave me an apologetic look, but he was already unpacking boxes. The kids, I vaguely remembered they were seven and 10, were jumping on my vintage couch.

The dog had found my area rug and was making itself very comfortable.

“Where’s David?” I managed to ask.

“Depositions all week, dear, San Jose,” she said. “He said you’d understand.”

Patricia opened my kitchen cabinets like she owned the place.

“Now, where do you keep the child-safe plates?” she asked. “These bowls are far too nice for children.”

Those bowls were handmade ceramics from a trip to Japan with my grandfather. Each one represented a memory.

I pulled out my phone. There were three missed calls from David, all from this morning when I’d been in a client meeting.

There was one text: “Mom found a solution for James, call me when you can.” A solution for James’s problem using my space without asking me.

My hands were shaking as I called him back. It went straight to voicemail, of course.

“Patricia,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “I need to speak with David before this goes any further. This is my apartment; I need to be consulted.”

“Consulted?” Patricia set down the bowls with a sharp clink. “Elena, James is David’s brother. These are his nephews. Surely you’re not so selfish that you’d turn away family in their time of need.”

The Breaking Point

The word “selfish” hung in the air between us. Behind her, James had the decency to look uncomfortable.

The older boy, Tyler, was now examining my grandfather’s easel with sticky fingers.

“Tyler, don’t touch that,” I said sharply.

“It’s just an old wood thing,” Patricia said.

“James, show the boys to the bedroom,” she said. “They’ll need proper beds. Of course, Elena, that futon in your room won’t do; we’ll need to order—”

“My bedroom?” The words came out as almost a whisper.

Patricia looked at me like I was being deliberately obtuse.

“Well, where else would the children sleep?” she asked. “They need stability, Elena, a proper bedroom. You can take the couch for the summer, or perhaps that little office nook.”

“Get out,” I said. The words surprised even me.

They came from somewhere deep, somewhere I’d been pushing down for months. It was as Patricia made comments about my cooking, my career, and my modern lifestyle.

“Excuse me?” Patricia’s eyes narrowed.

“Get out of my home,” I said. I was shaking now, but my voice was steady.

“You don’t live here,” I continued. “You don’t have a right to be here, and you certainly don’t have the right to move people into my space without my permission.”

“James, keep unpacking,” Patricia said calmly, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Elena’s just overwhelmed; she’ll feel better once—”

“I’m calling David right now,” I interrupted. “And if he doesn’t answer, I’m calling the police.”

Patricia laughed. She actually laughed.

“The police for family?” she asked. “Elena, I think you need to reconsider whether you’re ready to be part of this family if this is how you react to helping out in a crisis.”

“A crisis you created,” I shot back. “James’s housing situation is not my emergency. David’s mother making unilateral decisions about my property is not my problem to solve.”

“Your property?” Patricia’s voice took on an edge. “You mean the property you’ll share with David once you’re married? What’s yours will be his, and what’s his family’s needs are—”