My son has turned into a complete mess, and his girlfriend is just the same. Im exhausted from living in their chaos.
I never thought Id say it out loud, but Ive had enough. Enough of the dirty dishes, the floor that hasnt seen a mop in weeks, the lingering smell of leftovers, and the feeling that Im living with careless housemates rather than in my own flat. And all because of my own son and his “darling,” whove been squatting here like theyre on holiday for the past two months.
Thomas is twenty. Hes studying for his degree online, just finished his national service, and immediately found a job. A grown man, in theoryindependent, contributing to bills, not lazing about. I was proud of him. Until that fateful conversation.
“Mum,” he said one day, “its tough for Emily at home. Her parents are always fighting, throwing thingsshe cant even study in peace. Can she stay here a while, just till things settle? We wont be any trouble.”
I took pity. Id met her beforeshy, polite, eyes downcast, soft-spoken. How could I say no? Especially since Thomas has his own room; theres space. But I never expected the “gift” it would turn out to be.
The first few weeks, they made an effort: dishes put away, floors swept, no noise. We even made a cleaning rota: Saturdays, their turn; Wednesdays, mine. I thought they mightve actually grown up. But three weeks later, it all fell apart.
Dirty plates with crusted leftovers piled in the sink for days, hair and crisp packets strewn across the floor. The bathroom? Smears of shampoo, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room looked like a denclothes dumped everywhere, crumbs on the desk, bed never made. Emily strolls 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 reply: “We havent had 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. And again, I was the one scrubbing it clean.
When I walked into their room and saw the shambles, I couldnt stay quiet:
“Does it not bother you, living like this?”
Thomas didnt even blink:
“Great minds thrive in chaos.”
Except I see no greatness in this chaos. Just two adults who find it convenient to live like pigs and let his mum pick up after them.
Thomas promised to contributegroceries, bills. In reality, he only pays his share of the utilities. He buys food once a week, but takeawayspizza, kebabs, the lotarrive almost daily. They offer me some, but it doesnt warm my heart when the fridge stays empty. That money couldve fed us properly for days.
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 gently suggested cutting back, just a little help, she just shrugged, offended.
I raised Thomas alone. His father left before he was born. My parents helped, I worked twice as hard, saved, did everything for him. I never held it over him. And I dont want to start now. But watching my flat turn into a hovelI cant take it anymore.
I tried talking calmly. Once, 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 it. But enoughs enough. Ill say it plainly: either clean up your act, or move into student digs. Maybe there, theyll learn what it means to respect someone elses work and space.
Because Im done being their maid. I want to live in peace at lastno stress, no towering piles of dishes, no socks left on the kitchen counter.
What would you do? Should I risk a row with my son? Or keep turning a blind eye to this disaster in a home I built with my own hands?
Sometimes, the hardest lesson isnt for the youngits for us, learning when to stop cleaning up their messes.
