My husband Ben’s best friend, Lisa, showed up after a breakup. He said–“she’ll stay a few days to regroup.” I said fine—the couch was spare, and older friendships matter. We both agreed it’d be short-term help.
Then two weeks turned into a month… then two. Lisa started making herself at home in ways that felt… permanent. Our lives began revolving around her needs, her routines. She rearranged the living room to fit her style, kept the thermostat at her comfort, and later began making decisions for us—what we should watch, when we should eat, even how our children used their playroom.
Conversations with my husband ended in polite avoidance—how would I say something without appearing cold? He shrugged. She’s “just a friend.”
It wasn’t normal. It felt like our boundaries were slipping. When she eventually refused to leave, we called the police. That forced the eviction—and the awkward goodbye we’d both needed.
Now, the house feels quieter, but this situation became a turning point. Ben and I had to rebuild our communication, remind ourselves that even good friends have limits, and that home is meant for us—not staging someone else’s life in it.
