A mountain resort wedding should be a reward for good planning, not a test of your willingness to turn your hotel room into a family hostel. Months ago, one cousin did the responsible thing: booked, paid, and confirmed her reservation before most people had even RSVP’d to the wedding. Her reward? A few hours of peace before the bride’s sister materialized, suitcase in hand, hoping to cash in on family ties after forgetting to confirm her own booking.

The pitch was classic wedding weekend logic: you have a bed, I need a bed, and surely your quiet solo escape is less important than my last-minute scramble. When the cousin suggested other hotels, ones with actual vacancies and, presumably, doors that lock, the guilt campaign began in earnest. Suddenly, her ability to read a calendar and click «reserve» was rebranded as selfishness, and the group chat lit up with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.