**Diary Entry – 12th May**
My son told me I was tearing his family apart. All I did was ask his wife to wash her own dishes.
I was only twenty-two when my husband left us—me and our two-year-old boy. His name was Edward, and back then, I thought he was dependable, a real pillar of strength. But the moment life demanded responsibility—care, expenses, the weight of a family—he bolted. Ran off with another woman, pretty and carefree as a summer breeze. Said he was tired. Didn’t want the “hassle.”
So there I was, alone with a toddler and a pile of unpaid bills. Everything fell on me—nursery fees, work, the house, illnesses, shopping, even fixing the leaky tap myself. I worked from dawn till dusk, came home, and still scrubbed floors, made soup, washed nappies, ironed shirts. Now I can say it was hard, but back then, words didn’t matter. Survival did.
I raised my son the best I could—with love, with care. Did I spoil him? Maybe. Too much, perhaps. At twenty-seven, he can’t fry an egg, but he’s always had clean shirts, a full belly, and the certainty that “Mum will sort it.” I hoped marriage would make a man of him, that I could finally relax a little, maybe take up a part-time job, travel somewhere, live for myself at last. But life had other plans.
“Mum, me and Emily are going to stay with you for a bit,” he announced one evening. “Just till we save enough for a place of our own.”
What could I say? I shrugged and agreed. Thought, fine, let them stay awhile—newlyweds and all. Emily, I hoped, would take over looking after my son—cooking, laundry, cleaning. I’d manage.
I was wrong.
Emily was… how to put it gently? Utterly useless. No help at all. No cooking, no cleaning, not even the slightest effort. She spent her days glued to her phone, sipping lattes with friends, lounging in bed. Left dishes unwashed, laundry piled up, didn’t lift a finger. For three months, I carried all three of them—my son, his wife, and her idleness.
And I still worked. Came home to a house that looked ransacked—empty fridge, dirty plates, crumbs on the floor, sticky rings on the table, a mountain of laundry in the bathroom. I shopped, cooked, cleaned, washed dishes—all in silence. Emily couldn’t even muster a “thank you.”
Once, I was at the sink scrubbing when she strolled over and plopped a plate on the counter—one she’d apparently hoarded in her room for days. Crusted food, fruit flies and all. Didn’t even blush. Just dropped it and walked off. I stood there, staring, wondering how a grown woman could act like that.
The next day, I snapped. When she brought another dirty mug, I said, calm but firm, “Emily, if you’ve got any shred of decency, could you wash your own dishes just once?”
Silence. Not a word. She looked right through me and left. By morning, they’d packed up and gone. Didn’t even say goodbye.
That evening, my son rang. Voice like ice. “Mum, why’d you have to do that? Why ruin my marriage?”
I nearly laughed. “You call asking for a washed plate ‘ruining’?”
He hung up.
Haven’t heard from either since. And you know what? I don’t regret it. The house is quiet again. Clean. Peaceful. I make my tea, put on a show, and for the first time in years, I smile. I don’t feel like a maid. I’m not running ragged anymore.
If that’s what it took to “destroy a family”—well, then it wasn’t a family to begin with. Just an illusion. And I’m done living in those.
