Susan didn’t visit – she occupied. For a decade, her Fourth of July “pop-ins” meant days of preparation and thousands spent on food, only to be treated like staff in my own home. Last year, her grandson broke my grandmother’s vase while Susan complained the burgers were “too juicy.”
This summer, I rewrote the script. When her caravan arrived, they found a bare picnic table with a sign: “Grill Master Applications Open.” The fridge contained exactly six beers and a jar of pickles. “We’re trying something more… democratic this year,” I explained as her face fell.
The coup was instant. Susan’s daughters exchanged panicked looks while the kids asked when “real dinner” would be served. By the time they realized I wasn’t joking about the single package of hot dog buns I’d purchased, their indignation could’ve powered the fireworks display. They left before dusk – the earliest departure in family history. My neighbor summed it up best: “Nothing says American freedom like telling freeloaders to bring their own potato salad.”
