I never imagined I’d say this out loud… but I’m exhausted. Exhausted from the dirty dishes piling up, the grimy floors, the lingering stench of last night’s takeaway, and the constant feeling that I don’t live in my own flat—but in some dingy shared house with slovenly strangers. And all of it is because of my own son and his “beloved,” who’s been lounging here for two months like she’s on holiday.
James is twenty. He’s studying remotely at university, freshly back from his gap year travels, and already working part-time. On paper, he’s a responsible young man—earning his keep, contributing to bills, staying out of trouble. And God, I was proud of him. Until *that* conversation.
“Mum,” he’d said one evening, “Emily’s having a rough time at home. Her parents are always at each other’s throats—shouting, throwing things. She can’t even focus on her studies. Just let her stay with us for a bit, yeah? Till things calm down. We won’t be any trouble.”
I pitied the girl then. She’d visited before—quiet, polite, eyes always downcast, voice barely above a whisper. How could I say no? Especially with James having his own room—plenty of space. But I never dreamed what kind of nightmare this kindness would bring.
The first few weeks, they *tried*—washing up, sweeping, keeping the noise down. We even made a rota: Saturdays for them, Wednesdays for me. I thought, *Maybe they’ve finally grown up.* But three weeks in, it all fell apart.
Plates crusted with old food sat in the sink for days. Hair, wrappers, and crumbs littered the floors. The bathroom? Streaks of shampoo, clumps of hair in the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room became a proper pigsty—clothes flung about, crumbs all over the desk, the bed never made. Emily strutted around with a face mask on, scrolling through her phone like she was at a spa, not squatting in *my* home.
I tried talking, pleading, reminding. The answer was always the same—*”We’ll get to it later.”* And “later” stretched into weeks. So I started handing them the mop and sponges in silence—no nagging, just a pointed look. Even that didn’t work. Once, they spilt sauce on the tablecloth—just walked away. Left it. And again, I cleaned up after them.
When I walked into their room last week and saw the carnage, I snapped.
“Doesn’t it disgust you to live like this?”
James didn’t even blink.
“Creative minds thrive in chaos.”
Well, I didn’t see any *creativity* in that mess. Just two grown adults happy to live like slobs while their mother played housemaid.
James had promised to help—groceries, his share of bills. In reality? He covers the utilities. Buys food once a week, yet they order takeaway nearly every night. Sushi, pizza, kebabs… they’ll offer me some, like that makes up for the empty fridge. That money could’ve fed us *all* for days.
Emily doesn’t work—full-time student. Gets her maintenance loan, but not a penny goes toward food or household bits. Spends it all on herself. When I suggested she chip in, just a little? Got nothing but a sulk and a shrug.
I raised James alone. His father left before he was born. My parents helped, but I worked double shifts, saved every pound, built a life for us. Never threw his father’s absence in his face. Don’t want to now. But watching him and his girlfriend turn my home into a dump? I can’t take it anymore.
I tried being gentle. Once, twice, three times. Now I know—it’s pointless. They won’t change. They think *I’m* the nag, that I should be *grateful* they tolerate me in my own flat.
Two months I’ve put up with this. No more. I’ll tell them straight—either clean up, or pack your things and find a student flat. Maybe then they’ll learn to respect someone else’s space.
Because I’m done being their skivvy. I want to live in peace—no stress, no filthy dishes, no stranger’s socks on the kitchen counter.
What would you do? Confront your own son? Or keep biting your tongue while your home crumbles around you?
