**Diary Entry**
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 walked out on me and our two-year-old boy. His name was William, and back then, I thought he was dependable—my rock. But the moment life demanded responsibility from him—care, bills, family duties—he bolted. Left me for another woman, 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 my shoulders—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, cooked stews, washed nappies, ironed shirts. Looking back, I could 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 still can’t fry potatoes, but his shirts were always crisp, his belly full, and he grew up believing “Mum will sort it.” I hoped marriage would make a man of him, that I’d finally breathe—take a part-time job, go on a holiday, live for myself at last. But life had other plans.
“Mum, Emily and I are going to stay with you for a bit,” he announced one evening. “Just till we save enough for a flat.”
What could I say? I shrugged and agreed. Thought: fine, newlyweds, it won’t be long. I hoped Emily would step up—cook for him, clean, take charge. I’d endure it.
I was wrong.
Emily was… how to put it politely… hopeless. No help at all. No cooking, no cleaning, not even the slightest effort. She spent days glued to her phone, sipping lattes with mates, lounging in bed. Left dishes unwashed, laundry piled, didn’t lift a finger. For three months, I carried them both—my son, his wife, and her laziness.
Meanwhile, I still worked full days. Came home to chaos—empty fridge, dirty plates, crumbs on the floor, sticky stains on the table, a mountain of laundry in the bathroom. I shopped, cooked, cleaned, washed up—all in silence. Not even a “thank you” from Emily.
Once, as I scrubbed pans, she strolled over and plonked a plate by the sink—one she’d hoarded in her room for days. Dried food, fruit flies. No shame. Just dropped it and walked off. I stood there, staring, wondering how a grown woman could be so thoughtless.
Next day, I snapped. When she brought another filthy mug, I kept my voice steady: “Emily, for heaven’s sake, could you wash your own dishes just once?”
Not a word. She glanced at me like I was air and left. By morning, they’d packed and gone. No goodbye.
That evening, my son called, voice icy: “Mum, why’d you do it? Why wreck my marriage?”
I choked. “You call a dirty plate a wrecked marriage?”
He hung up.
Haven’t heard from either since. And you know what? I don’t regret it. The house is quiet. Tidy. Free. I make tea, put on telly, and smile for the first time in ages. I’m no one’s maid. No longer drowning.
If that means I “broke a family,” then it was never a family—just a pretty lie. And I’m done with lies.
