My son has turned into a complete slob, and his girlfriend is just the same. Im exhausted from living in their mess.
I never thought Id say it out loud, but Ive had enough. Enough of the dirty dishes, the floor that hasnt seen a broom in weeks, that lingering smell of leftovers, and the feeling of living with careless housemates rather than in my own flat. And all because of my own son and his darling, whove been camping here like theyre on holiday for the past two months.
James is twenty. Hes studying for his degree online, just finished his national service, and landed a job straight after. A grown man, in theoryindependent, contributing to bills, not lazing about. I was proud of him. Until *that* conversation.
Mum, he said one day, Emilys having a rough time at home. Her parents are always rowing, throwing thingsshe cant even study in peace. Can she stay here for a bit, just till things settle down? We wont be any trouble.
I felt sorry for her. Id met her beforeshy, polite, eyes down, soft-spoken. How could I say no? Especially since James has his own room; theres space. But I didnt expect the *gift* it would turn out to be.
At first, they made an effort: dishes put away, floors swept, no noise. We even made a cleaning rotaSaturdays were theirs, Wednesdays mine. I thought maybe theyd actually grown up. But three weeks in, it all went downhill.
Dirty plates with crusted leftovers sat in the sink for days; hair and wrappers littered the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo smears, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room looked like a denclothes strewn about, crumbs on the desk, bed never made. Emily wanders around with a face mask on, phone in hand, like shes at a spa, not in my home.
I tried talking, reminding, asking. Always the same: We didnt have time, well do it later. Except later never came. So I started handing them the mop and cleaning spray directlyno nagging, just silence. Even that changed nothing. Once, they spilled sauce on the tableclothjust left it. Walked off. And again, *I* cleaned it.
When I stepped into their room and saw the disaster, I couldnt stay quiet:
Does it not bother you, living like this?
James, without blinking, said:
Creative genius thrives in chaos.
Except I see no genius in this chaos. Just two adults who find it convenient to live like pigs and let Mum pick up after them.
James promised to chip ingroceries, bills. In reality, he only pays the utilities. Groceries, once a week, but takeawayssushi, pizza, the lotnearly every day. They offer me some, but it doesnt warm my heart. The fridge stays empty. With that money, we couldve fed the whole family.
Emily doesnt work; shes a student. She gets a grant but hasnt put a penny toward food or cleaning. It all goes on her little luxuries. When I suggested tightening the budget, just a bit of help, she shrugged, offended.
I raised James alone. His dad left before he was born. My parents helped, I worked twice as hard, scrimped and saved, did everything for him. Ive never held it over him. And I dont want to start now. But watching my flat turn into a dump? I cant take it anymore.
I tried talkingonce, twice, three times. Now its clear: they wont change. They think Im just a nagging old woman, that I should be grateful they tolerate me under the same roof.
Two months Ive put up with this. But enoughs enough. Ill make it plain: either they sort themselves out, or they move into student digs. Maybe there, theyll learn what it means to respect other peoples work and space.
Because Im done being their maid. I want to live in peaceno stress, no towers of dirty dishes, no socks left in the kitchen.
What would you do? Risk a row with your own son? Or keep turning a blind eye to the wreckage of a home Ive built with my own hands?
Sometimes, the hardest lesson is realising that love doesnt mean letting someone take you for granted.
