My son told me I’m ruining his marriage. All I did was ask my daughter-in-law 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 Edward, and back then, I thought he was dependable—a proper rock. But the moment life demanded responsibility, care, or expenses for the family, he bolted. Ran off with another woman, pretty and carefree as a summer breeze. Said he was tired. Didn’t want to “deal with it all.”
So there I was, alone with a toddler and a pile of unpaid bills. Everything fell on my shoulders—childcare, work, the house, illnesses, shopping. I even fixed the leaky tap myself. I worked dawn till dusk, came home, and still scrubbed floors, cooked dinners, washed nappies, ironed shirts. Looking back, I could say it was hard, but at the time, there was no room for words. I just had to survive.
I raised my son the best I could—with love, with care. Did I spoil him? Maybe. Too much, perhaps. By twenty-seven, he still couldn’t fry an egg, but he always had clean shirts, a full belly, and the belief that “Mum will sort it.” I hoped marriage would finally make a man of him, that I’d get to relax a little, focus on myself, maybe take on lighter work, travel somewhere, live for me at last.
But things didn’t go that way.
“Mum, Emily and I are going to stay with you for a bit,” he announced one evening. “Just till we’ve saved enough for our own place.”
What could I say? I shrugged and agreed. Thought, fine, let them stay a while—newlyweds and all. I hoped Emily would take care of my son—do the cooking, the laundry, the cleaning. I’d tough it out.
I was wrong.
Emily turned out to be—how to put it kindly—utterly useless. No help at all. No cooking, no cleaning, not even a hint of willingness. She spent whole days on her phone, sipping coffee with mates, lounging in bed. Didn’t wash a dish, do laundry, or tidy up after herself. For three months, I carried all three of them—my son, his wife, and her laziness.
And I still worked. Came home to a house like a hurricane had hit: empty fridge, dirty plates, crumbs on the floor, sticky rings on the table, laundry mouldering in the bathroom. I’d go shopping, cook, clean, wash dishes—all in silence. Emily didn’t even bother with a “cheers.”
Once, I was at the sink washing up when she walked over, shamelessly plonked down a plate she’d kept in her room for days—crusted with food and crawling with flies. Didn’t flinch. Just dropped it and walked off. I stood there, staring, wondering how a grown woman could be like that.
The next day, I snapped. When she brought yet another dirty mug, I kept my voice steady.
“Emily, if you’ve got an ounce of decency, could you wash up after yourself just once?”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at me like I was nothing and left. By morning, they’d packed their things and gone. Didn’t even say goodbye.
That evening, my son called. Cold, distant.
“Mum, why are you doing this? Why wreck my marriage?”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“You call asking someone to wash a plate ‘wrecking a marriage’?”
He hung up.
Haven’t heard from him or Emily since. And you know what? I don’t regret it. The house is quiet again. Clean. Free. I brew a cuppa, put on my favourite telly show, and for the first time in years, I’ve got the energy to smile. I don’t feel like a servant anymore.
And if that means I “ruined a marriage”—well, then it wasn’t a marriage. Just an illusion. And I’m done living in one.
