Oliver had turned into a slob, and his girlfriend—his mirror image. I’m exhausted, living in their filth.
I never imagined I’d say it out loud, but… I’m done. Done with the stacked dishes, the sticky floors, the lingering stench of takeaway gone stale. I feel like a stranger in my own flat—like I’m sharing a dingy bedsit with a pair of disrespectful flatmates. And all because of my own son and his “beloved,” who’s been leeching off us for two months as if this were a holiday retreat.
Oliver is twenty. He’s studying remotely, just back from his service, and already working. A grown man, you’d think—earning his keep, contributing, not idling about. God knows I used to be proud of him. Until that conversation.
“Mum,” he said once, his voice all pleading, “Emily’s got it rough at home. Her parents are always 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 felt sorry for the girl. She’d visited before—quiet, polite, always casting her eyes down, speaking so softly you had to lean in. How could I refuse? Especially with Oliver having his own room, space enough. But I never dreamed what a nightmare this “favour” would become.
The first few weeks, they made an effort. We’d take turns—Saturdays theirs, Wednesdays mine. Dishes washed, floors swept. I let myself hope: maybe they’ve grown up. Then, three weeks in, the act crumbled.
Now, crusted plates fester in the sink for days. Floors are littered with biscuit crumbs, hair ties, crumpled wrappers. The bathroom’s a disgrace—smeared shampoo, clumps of hair in the drain, soap scum streaked across the tiles. Their room? A pigsty. Clothes strewn everywhere, crisps ground into the carpet, the bed perpetually unmade. Emily floats around in a face mask, scrolling her phone like she’s at some posh spa, not squatting in my home.
I’ve asked. I’ve reminded. Begged, even. Every time, the same lazy shrug: “We’ll get to it.” But “later” never comes. I started handing them brushes, cloths—no words, just action. Still nothing. Once, they spilled gravy on the tablecloth. Did they wipe it? No. Walked off, left it. So I cleaned it again.
When I finally snapped, stepping into their disaster of a room—”Doesn’t this disgust you?”—Oliver just smirked.
“Creative minds thrive in chaos.”
Only I don’t see genius. I see two lazy adults happy to live like pigs while I scrub their mess.
Oliver promised he’d help—groceries, bills. Reality? He chips in for utilities, nothing more. Buces a few crisps once a week, then orders takeaways daily. Sushi. Burgers. Pizzas. They offer me bites, like that’s charity. The fridge stays bare. Meanwhile, that wasted money could feed us properly for a week.
Emily doesn’t work. Claims she’s “studying full-time.” Gets her student loan, spends it all on herself—never a penny toward food or cleaning. When I suggested pitching in? A sulk. A shrug.
I raised Oliver alone. His dad left before he was born. My parents helped where they could, but I worked double shifts, scrimped, clawed us up. Never once threw that in his face. Not then. Not now. But watching him and that girl trash my home? I’m done.
I tried talking. Again. Again. Useless. They won’t change. To them, I’m just nagging. As if I should be grateful they tolerate me in my own flat.
Two months. That’s how long I’ve endured this. No more. Either they clean up—or pack up. Maybe student halls will teach them respect for others’ space.
Because I’m done being their unpaid maid. I want peace. A home without chaos, without someone else’s knickers drying on the radiator.
Tell me—would you kick them out? Or keep swallowing the anger, living in their filth?
