My son has turned into a slob, and his girlfriend is just as bad. I’m exhausted living in their mess.
I never thought I’d say it out loud, but… I’ve had enough. Enough of the dirty dishes, the sticky floors, the lingering smell of last night’s takeaway, and the constant feeling that I’m not in my own flat but sharing a dingy flat with careless housemates. And it’s all because of my own son and his “beloved,” who’s been living here like she’s on holiday for the past two months.
James is twenty. He studies at university part-time, recently finished his national service, and got himself a job. By all appearances, he’s a grown man—starting his own life, contributing to the bills, keeping busy. And I was proud of him. Until one conversation changed everything.
“Mum,” he said one evening, “Emily’s having a tough time at home. Her parents are always rowing, throwing things, making it impossible for her to focus on her studies. Can she stay with us for a bit, just until things settle down? We’ll keep it quiet, won’t be any trouble.”
I felt sorry for the girl. She’d visited before—quiet, polite, always looking down, speaking barely above a whisper. How could I refuse? Plus, James has his own room, so space wasn’t an issue. But I never imagined the nightmare this would become.
The first few weeks, they tried. Washed up, swept the floors, kept things tidy. We even made a cleaning rota—Saturday was their day, Wednesday was mine. I thought, maybe they really have grown up. But three weeks in, everything fell apart.
Dirty plates with crusted leftovers piled in the sink for days. Hair, wrappers, crumbs scattered across the floor. The bathroom was worse—shampoo stains, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room became a proper pigsty—clothes strewn about, food crumbs on the desk, bed never made. Emily lounges around in face masks, scrolling on her phone like she’s at a spa, not a guest in someone else’s home.
I tried talking, reminding, pleading. Every time, the same answer: “We’ll get to it later.” But “later” never came. So I started handing them the mop and dustpan without a word—no nagging, just action. Still, nothing changed. Once, they spilled sauce on the tablecloth and just walked away. Left it for me to clean. Again.
The final straw was when I walked into their room and saw the chaos. I snapped.
“Doesn’t this disgust you?”
James didn’t even blink.
“Creative minds thrive in chaos.”
Only, I don’t see any creativity in this mess. Just two grown adults comfortable living like pigs, happy to let Mum pick up after them.
James promised he’d help—buy groceries, chip in with bills. Reality? He covers the utilities, barely. Shops for food once a week, then spends half his wages on Deliveroo—sushi, pizza, kebabs. They offer me some, but what’s the point? The fridge is still empty. That money could’ve fed us all properly for a week.
Emily doesn’t work—studies full-time. Gets her maintenance loan, but never spends a penny on household stuff. All for herself. When I suggested budgeting, pitching in, she just shrugged like it was nothing.
I raised James alone. His dad left before he was even born. My parents helped, but I worked double shifts, scrimped, saved, did everything for him. Never threw it in his face. Don’t want to now. But watching him and his girlfriend turn my flat into a tip? I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve tried talking—once, twice, a dozen times. Pointless. They won’t change. To them, I’m just a nag. Like I should be grateful they let me live in my own home.
Two months I’ve put up with this. Enough. I’m ready to lay it out: either they clean up their act, or they pack their bags and find a student flat. Maybe then they’ll learn to respect someone else’s space.
Because I’m done being their maid. I want a quiet life—no stress, no mess, no stranger’s socks on the kitchen counter.
What would you do? Confront him, risk the fallout? Or keep quiet, pretending not to see the filth in the home I built with my own hands?
