I put down my coffee.

“Then call them back,” I said. “Tell them we don’t have room. Tell them there’s a Hampton Inn ten minutes from here. I’ll even look up the number for them.”

His face changed. That look he gets. Like I’ve said something unreasonable. Like I’ve insulted somebody.

“Don’t start,” he said. “They’re my family.”

“And I’m your wife,” I said. “I live here too. This is my home too.”

He didn’t answer.

He just picked up his beer, walked into the living room, and turned on the television.

I sat at the kitchen table for a long time, looking at my cold pasta.

I tried again on Friday morning, while he was getting dressed for work.

“Patrick, we need to talk about this weekend.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s two nights.”

“Six people. Two nights. In a one-bedroom apartment.”

“People do it all the time.”

“Name one person who does it all the time.”

He tied his tie in the mirror and didn’t answer.

I tried again Friday night. He said he was tired. He said we’d talk in the morning.

On Saturday morning, he was already gone when I woke up. There was a note on the kitchen counter. Went to pick up some stuff. Back soon.

So I went grocery shopping. I thought I’d have time to figure it out. I thought they’d come in the afternoon, maybe. Maybe I could talk him into the hotel before they even got there.

Then I got Linda’s text in the cereal aisle.

When I got home that Saturday morning, there were suitcases blocking our hallway.

I mean blocking it. I had to turn sideways to get through the front door. There were four big rolling suitcases, two duffel bags, a cooler, a folded-up playpen, a bag of pillows, and a laundry basket full of toys.

I squeezed past all of it, holding the two grocery bags I’d managed to grab before I left the store.

In the living room, Kevin was stretched out in the armchair watching a baseball game on our TV with the volume turned up too loud. Kevin is Patrick’s younger brother. He’s thirty. He sells insurance. He has the same face as Patrick, just a little rounder.

His wife, Kylie, was kneeling on the floor, digging through a diaper bag.

Their two kids, Mason and Ava, had spread toys across every inch of our living room floor. Plastic dinosaurs. Building blocks. A naked doll. A toy fire truck with a siren that was going off every thirty seconds. Mason is seven. Ava is four.

My father-in-law, Robert, was standing near the kitchen doorway, holding a pillow. Just holding it. Like he didn’t know where to put it.

And Linda had claimed our couch.

She was sitting right in the middle of it with her shoes off and her feet up on the coffee table. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. From my coffee maker. In my favorite mug, the blue one with the little white birds on it.

She looked up when I came in.

“Finally!” she announced. “When are you making breakfast, Clarissa?”

I put my groceries down on the kitchen counter.

“Good morning, Linda,” I said.

“Patrick said you’d make your pancakes,” Linda said. “With all the trimmings. Bacon. Eggs. That fruit thing you do with the yogurt.”

“Did he?” I said.

“The children are starving,” she said. “They haven’t had anything since six this morning.”

I looked toward our bedroom.

The door was open. Patrick came out of it, carrying a blanket. Our blanket. The gray quilted one from our bed.

“Where’s that going?” I asked.

“Kevin and Kylie can use it,” he said. “They’ll take the air mattress in here. The kids can sleep on the floor next to them.”

“And your parents?”

“They’re taking our bed,” he said. “Mom’s back bothers her.”