When Family Overstays Its Welcome: My Life With Lisa, My Husband’s Sister
“You can’t be serious, John. Again?” My voice was sharper than I meant, but I’d just seen Lisa’s text light up his phone: “Heading over! Got the new season of ‘True Crime Unsolved’—can’t wait to binge!”
John was half-turned away, fidgeting with the remote, pretending he didn’t hear the edge in my voice. “She just needs a little company, you know that. Ever since her divorce, she’s been—”
“Ever since her divorce, John, she’s been here every weekend. Every single one!” I interrupted, my words tumbling out hot and heavy. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel the tears threatening. Not again, please not another weekend lost.
I should probably rewind. I’m Emily. I’m forty-two, married to John for fifteen years, mother of two (Mia, 13, and Noah, 10), and for most of my marriage, I’ve had a third wheel: Lisa. She’s my sister-in-law, but more than that, she’s the axis around which my weekends spin—whether I want them to or not.
Lisa wasn’t always like this. She was the fun aunt, the one who brought donuts and let my kids stay up late. But after her marriage imploded three years ago, she started coming by more and more—first for comfort, then out of habit. Now, she shows up promptly at 5PM every Friday, bags in hand, ready to take over our living room, the kitchen, the TV, and, if I’m being honest, my sanity.
It wasn’t always awful. At first, I thought, “She just needs us right now.” But as the months dragged on, I started to feel like a guest in my own home. She’d commandeer the TV for her shows, talk over me at dinner, and worst of all, John never set any boundaries. When I tried to talk to him, he’d say, “She’s family, Em. She’s all alone.”
One night, about six months ago, I snapped. It was a Saturday night—our anniversary weekend. I’d planned a special dinner, candles, music, the whole deal. I was setting the table when Lisa burst through the door, arms full of takeout. “I brought sushi! Hope you don’t mind I invited Greg from work—he’s going through a rough patch, too.”
John grinned. “The more the merrier!”
I stared at him, my heart sinking. I wanted to scream, but instead, I excused myself and cried in the bathroom. That night, John found me sitting on the edge of the tub.
“Lisa didn’t mean to ruin things,” he said quietly, kneeling in front of me. “She just… doesn’t have anyone else.”
I looked at him, mascara streaking my cheeks. “But what about us, John? Don’t we deserve time, too?”
He hugged me, but nothing changed.
The following weeks were a blur of tense silences and forced smiles. Mia started asking if Aunt Lisa would be here “forever.” Noah started spending more time in his room. I began to fantasize about what it would be like to have a weekend—just one—without Lisa.
The breaking point came last Saturday. I woke up to find Lisa making pancakes, singing off-key to Taylor Swift, and John laughing along. I was invisible. After breakfast, I cornered John in the garage while he fumbled with the recycling.
“This isn’t working, John,” I said. My voice was flat, but my hands were shaking. “I need my weekends back. I need my marriage back.”
He stared at me, stunned. “She needs us, Em.”
“And what about what I need?” I asked quietly.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the past three years. The small sacrifices that became habits, the habits that became resentment. I thought about how Lisa’s laughter used to fill the house with warmth, and now it grated on my nerves. I thought about how I’d stopped inviting friends over, stopped planning family outings, stopped feeling like my own home belonged to me.
Sunday morning, after Lisa left, I sat down with John. The kids were at a playdate, the house was quiet. For the first time in months, I didn’t hold back.
“I love you,” I said. “But I can’t do this anymore. I feel like we’re living someone else’s life. We never have time for us. The kids barely get to see you without her around. I know she’s family, but I need boundaries. I need you to choose our marriage sometimes, too.”
John looked at me, and for once, I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. “I just don’t want to let her down,” he whispered.
“And I don’t want to lose you,” I replied.
We sat in silence, the weight of years pressing between us. Finally, he nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been avoiding this. I’ll talk to her. We’ll set limits.”
It wasn’t easy. Lisa cried. She accused me of not caring. John felt torn. But slowly, painfully, we carved out new boundaries: one weekend a month, not every weekend. Family dinners, not sleepovers. Time for us, for our kids, for our marriage.
It’s still hard. Sometimes I feel guilty. Sometimes John feels caught in the middle. Sometimes Lisa’s absence feels like relief, and sometimes it feels like loss. But for the first time in years, I feel like we’re building a life that belongs to us.
I wonder, does setting boundaries with family make me selfish—or just human? Can love survive when it’s stretched so thin? I’d love to hear what you think.