**Diary Entry**
At just twenty-two, my husband left me alone with our little boy, Oliver. He was barely two at the time. My husband couldn’t handle the weight of family life—tired of working and spending his wages on us. Why support a family when you could splurge on yourself and your mistress? However lacking he was as a husband, life was easier together. Once he was gone, the world’s weight settled squarely on my shoulders.
Oliver started nursery, and I found work. Some days, I dragged myself home exhausted, yet the house stayed immaculate: meals cooked, laundry folded, everything just so. That’s how my mother raised me—our generation understood duty. I’ll admit, I spoiled Oliver a bit. By twenty-seven, he couldn’t even fry potatoes. When he married Emily, I hoped she’d take over his care, and I’d finally have time for myself—hobbies, maybe even a side job. A quiet life, at last.
But it didn’t work out that way. Oliver announced they were moving into my flat in Manchester—*just temporarily*. I wasn’t thrilled but agreed. I assumed Emily would cook, clean, and look after him while I gritted my teeth. The reality was a nightmare.
Emily was bone-idle. She left dishes piled up, laundry strewn about, never lifted a hoover. Did nothing! For three months, I waited on three people. Is this what I envisioned for my golden years?
While Oliver played the sole breadwinner, Emily lazed about. Days were spent glued to her phone or nattering with friends. I still worked full-time. Coming home to chaos—mess everywhere, fridge empty—became routine. I’d trek to the shops, cook dinner, then scrub a week’s worth of dishes. Not once did Emily show remorse.
One evening, as I washed up, she handed me a plate from their room—food crusted, moldy, buzzing with flies. I bit my tongue. The next time she did it, I snapped. *“Emily, if you’ve any decency, could you wash a single dish?”* I kept my voice steady.
Guess what? No apology. The next day, they moved out—rented a place. Then Oliver claimed *I* was tearing his marriage apart. How? By asking his wife to clean up after herself?
Thank heavens my home is peaceful again. Caring only for myself is a relief. But I can’t help wondering—what’s wrong with young people today? They can’t cook, clean, or take responsibility. My son, whom I raised with all my love, blames me for his troubles. All I wanted was for his wife to act like an adult.
Now I live for myself. Yet bitterness lingers: Did I fail raising Oliver? Or is this just the way of the world now—where no one remembers how to care for another?
