For a week now, I’ve been staying at my mother’s—I couldn’t bear the mess at home any longer.
I was raised in a household where order wasn’t just a habit—it was a way of life. Mum, despite working full-time and raising two children, always managed to keep the house spotless. Every item had its place, the floors gleamed, the fridge smelled fresh, and the air carried the warmth of home. I grew up believing comfort began with cleanliness. When I married, it never crossed my mind that it could be otherwise.
Yet, three years into the marriage, I found myself trapped in endless disarray. Every evening, returning from work, I’d stumble through chaos. The sink piled high with dishes, crumbs strewn across the kitchen, the bin overflowing, and in the fridge—leftovers long forgotten, furred with mould. The floors were sticky, laundry heaped in the bathroom, and shoes left scattered in the hall until I dealt with them myself.
My daughter would run to greet me, her tights torn, hair tangled, clothes far from fresh. Just navigating the hallway was a trial—prams, shopping bags, toys strewn about, shoes kicked aside. Every cupboard stood open, contents spilling out. Though I’d tidied it all myself that morning, order had vanished by dusk. It was impossible to tell if we lived in a spacious three-bedroom home or a cramped, windowless storeroom.
I tried talking about it—gently, calmly, without accusation. “Olivia,” I’d say, “please, let’s just keep some semblance of order. It’s hard living like this.” She’d listen, nod, promise, yet nothing changed. Before our daughter was born, we’d shared chores fairly—cleaning, cooking, all split down the middle. Once a week, we’d mop floors and dust together, taking turns with the dishes. There’d been a sense of partnership.
Now, though, working late most nights while Olivia stayed home with our little one, all I asked was not to step over piles of clothes, hunt for a clean mug among the dirty dishes, or gather socks from every corner. I wasn’t refusing to help—I mopped on Sundays, dusted, took the rubbish out each morning. But I was exhausted. Tired of coming home only to start cleaning, tired of digging the kettle out of clutter, tired of pointless quarrels.
Finally, I gave an ultimatum: either the house saw some order within three days, or I’d leave. She laughed, thinking it a joke. But when, after three days, nothing had changed—I packed my things without a word and left for Mum’s. It’s been a week now. I sleep in my old room, eat hot stew, open the fridge without dreading something alive inside.
I don’t want a divorce. I love Olivia. I love my daughter. But I can’t fathom living in such disarray. I’m not asking for much—just respect. For the home, for myself, for what we’ve built. And if that’s too much… then perhaps I’ll have to choose between peace and love. Because living in constant chaos isn’t living—it’s surviving.
