I was barely twenty-two when my husband left me alone with our young son, Oliver. The boy had just turned two. My husband couldn’t bear the weight of family life—growing weary of providing for us, he chose to spend his earnings on himself and another woman instead. A poor husband he may have been, but having him around had made things easier. Once he was gone, the world’s burdens fell squarely on my shoulders.
Oliver started nursery, and I found work. Often, I’d drag myself home exhausted, yet the house was always in order: meals cooked, the child fed, laundry washed and pressed. That’s how my mother raised me—our generation understood duty. I’ll admit, I may have spoiled Oliver a touch. By twenty-seven, he couldn’t even fry potatoes. But when he married, I hoped his wife, Harriet, would take over his care, leaving me free to tend to my own life—perhaps a hobby, even a bit of extra work. A quiet, settled existence at last.
But it didn’t go as planned. Oliver announced they’d be moving into my flat in Manchester—”just for a while.” I wasn’t thrilled, but I agreed. I assumed Harriet would cook, clean, and tend to him while I gritted my teeth through it. Instead, reality was a nightmare.
Harriet was bone idle. She left dishes piled high, clothes strewn about, never lifted a duster, much less the hoover. For three months, I waited on three people. Is this what I’d dreamed of in my later years?
While Oliver decided he’d be the sole breadwinner, Harriet idled her days away, chatting with friends or glued to her phone until he returned from work. Meanwhile, I still had my job. I’d come home to chaos—mess everywhere, the fridge bare, no supper ready. So I’d trudge to Sainsbury’s, lug back groceries, cook, then scrub a mountain of dishes. Not once did Harriet show a shred of remorse.
One evening, as I washed up, she brought me a plate left festering in their room for days—mouldy scraps, even flies on it. I bit my tongue. But when she dumped another just like it into the sink later, I snapped.
“Harriet, if you’ve any decency at all, you might wash a dish now and then,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
Did she apologise? Of course not. The next day, they moved out—rented a place of their own. And Oliver claimed I was “trying to tear his family apart.” How? By asking his wife to do the washing-up?
Thank heavens, my home is peaceful again. Tending only to myself is a relief. But I can’t fathom this younger lot—helpless with chores, allergic to responsibility. My own son, raised with such care, blames me for his troubles. All I wanted was for his wife to act like a grown woman.
Now I live for myself. Yet bitterness lingers: did I fail Oliver somehow? Or is this the way of the world now—where caring for one another is forgotten?
