Get Up and Make Me Coffee: When Family Overstays Their Welcome

“Get up and make me coffee.”

The words slammed into my half-sleep before I even opened my eyes. It wasn’t my husband’s voice—it was Jake’s, his brother, standing at the foot of our bed like he owned the place. I blinked, disoriented, my heart pounding. Was this really happening? Sunday mornings were sacred for me, the only time I could reclaim a sliver of peace before the week chewed me up again. But Jake had been here for two weeks, and every morning he demanded, and I delivered. Because my husband, Mark, just couldn’t say no.

Jake wasn’t supposed to stay this long. It was supposed to be a family weekend—just two, maybe three days. We’d even prepared the guest room with clean sheets and a little welcome basket. Mark had been so excited. “He says he misses me,” he’d said, his eyes shining with a boyish hope I hadn’t seen in years. “It’s been forever since we hung out, just us.” I’d nodded, trying to match his enthusiasm, even though Jake and I had always been a little oil-and-water. But I wanted to support my husband. I wanted him to have his family close, even if it meant biting my tongue.

But then Jake just… didn’t leave. The first weekend came and went, football on the TV, beer bottles stacking up on the coffee table, pizza boxes multiplying. I waited for Mark to say something, but every time I hinted, he brushed it off. “He’s just going through a rough patch,” Mark said. “Let him figure it out.”

But Jake wasn’t figuring anything out. He was living in our house, eating our food, taking over our living room, and treating me like his personal maid. Every morning, he’d bark orders, and every night, he’d stay up late, laughing loudly at some show while I tried to sleep. At first, I tried to be polite. “Hey, Jake, would you mind keeping it down? I have work in the morning.” He’d just grin and say, “Lighten up, Sarah,” like I was the problem.

By the end of week one, I was exhausted. By the end of week two, I was angry. I’d find myself glaring at Mark across the dinner table, hoping he’d finally notice the tension. But he didn’t—or maybe he wouldn’t. He seemed happy, caught up in old stories and inside jokes, blind to the way Jake was bulldozing over every boundary I’d tried to carve out for myself.

One night, after Jake had passed out on our couch, I cornered Mark in the kitchen. “This can’t go on,” I said, my voice shaking.

He looked at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Jake. He’s been here for two weeks. He treats me like I’m invisible or worse—like some kind of housekeeper. I can’t take it anymore, Mark. You need to say something.”

Mark frowned. “He’s my brother, Sarah. He’s family. He’s just… lost right now.”

“And what about me?” I whispered, tears threatening. “Don’t I count?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I just nodded and went to bed alone, while Mark sat up with Jake, laughing at memories that didn’t include me.

The next morning, Jake was at it again. “Coffee? Sarah, you up?”

Something snapped. I pulled the covers over my head. “Make it yourself, Jake.”

There was silence, then an incredulous laugh. “Excuse me?”

I sat up, my voice cold. “I said, make it yourself. This is my house, and I’m done being your waitress.”

He stared at me, mouth hanging open. “Jeez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Mark shuffled in, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Your wife’s having a meltdown,” Jake smirked, like this was all some big joke.

I looked at Mark, daring him to take my side. “I’m not having a meltdown. I’m tired, Mark. I’m tired of being treated like I don’t matter in my own home.”

Mark looked from me to his brother, torn. “Jake, maybe… maybe you should get your own coffee.”

Jake rolled his eyes but stomped off to the kitchen. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, his face pale. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I can’t keep doing this, Mark. I need you to stand up for us—for me. I know he’s your brother, but this isn’t fair.”

He nodded, finally seeing it.

Later that night, Mark talked to Jake. I don’t know exactly what was said, but the next morning Jake announced he’d be heading out “to give you guys your space.” He didn’t look at me when he left. The house was quiet again—almost too quiet.

Mark wrapped his arms around me, guilt heavy in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have listened sooner.”

I leaned into him, exhausted. “I know he’s your brother, but I’m your wife. I need to know you have my back.”

He nodded, and for once, I believed him.

It’s strange, the things we tolerate for the sake of family. I still wonder—where should the line be drawn between helping someone and losing yourself? How do you stand up for your own needs without tearing apart the people you love? Would you have spoken up sooner, or kept the peace a little longer?