I never thought I’d say this out loud, but… I’m exhausted. Tired of the dirty dishes, the unmopped floors, the lingering smell of yesterday’s takeaway, and the constant feeling that I’m living not in my own flat but in some rundown shared house with slovenly lodgers. And all because of my own son and his “darling,” who’s been treating my place like a hotel for the past two months.
Tom is twenty. He studies remotely at university, recently finished his National Service, and got himself a job. On paper, he’s a grown man—starting life on his own, pitching in with the bills, keeping busy. And I was proud of him. Until *that* conversation.
“Mum,” he said one day, “Sarah’s having a rough time at home. Her parents are constantly rowing, throwing things, never let her study. Can she stay with us for a bit? Just till things settle down. We won’t be a bother.”
I felt sorry for her. She’d visited before—quiet, polite, eyes down, hardly speaking above a whisper. How could I say no? Tom has his own room; there’s plenty of space. But I had no idea the mess I was inviting in.
The first few weeks, they made an effort—washed up, hoovered, kept things tidy. We even made a rota: Saturdays were theirs, Wednesdays mine. I thought, *Maybe they’ve really grown up.* But by week three, it all fell apart.
Dirty plates piled up for days, crumbs and crisp packets littered the floor. The bathroom was streaked with shampoo, hair clogging the drain. Their room became a proper tip—clothes everywhere, crumbs on the desk, sheets never made. Sarah strolls about with a face mask on, glued to her phone, acting like she’s at a spa, not a guest in someone else’s home.
I tried asking, reminding, pleading. The answer was always the same: “We’ll do it later.” And “later” stretched into weeks. So I started handing them the sponge or the hoover without a word—no nagging, just action. Still nothing. Once, they spilt sauce on the tablecloth and just… walked away. Again, I cleaned it myself.
The final straw was walking into their room and seeing the carnage. I snapped: “How can you even stand living like this?”
Without missing a beat, Tom said, “Creative minds thrive in chaos.”
Funny—I don’t see any genius here. Just two grown adults happy to wallow in filth while I play housemaid.
Tom promised to chip in—groceries, bills. In reality, he only pays his share of the rent. He buys food once a week, yet they order Deliveroo almost daily. Sushi, pizza, kebabs… they offer me some, but what’s the point? The fridge is still empty. That money could feed us properly for a week.
Sarah doesn’t work, studies full-time. Gets her student loan but hasn’t spent a penny on household costs. It all goes on herself. When I suggested budgeting, she just shrugged like I’d insulted her.
I raised Tom alone. His dad left before he was born. My parents helped, but I worked double shifts, scraped by, gave him everything. Never threw it in his face. And I won’t now. But watching him and his girlfriend turn my home into a pigsty? I’ve had enough.
I tried talking. Again and again. Now I see—it’s pointless. They won’t change. To them, I’m just a nag. Like I should be *grateful* they let me live here.
Two months of this. I’m done. Next step: “Clean up or pack your bags. Try student halls—see how you like respecting someone else’s space.”
Because I’m sick of being their skivvy. I want peace. A home without someone else’s socks on the kitchen counter.
What would you do? Confront him properly? Or keep biting my tongue, living in the mess I built with my own hands?
