**Diary Entry**
I never imagined Id admit this, but Ive reached my limit. Im exhaustedexhausted by the dirty dishes, the floors untouched by a broom for weeks, the lingering smell of stale food, and the unsettling feeling that Im living with careless housemates rather than in my own home. And all because of my own son and his so-called love, whove been staying here for two months as if its some sort of holiday.
Oliver is twenty. Hes studying remotely, recently finished his military service, and landed a job straight away. On paper, hes an independent adultcontributing to bills, never idle. I was proud of him. Until that wretched conversation.
*Mum,* he said one day, *its hard for Emily at home. Her parents argue, throw thingsshe cant even study in peace. Can she stay with us for a bit? Just until things calm down. We wont be any trouble.*
I pitied her. Id met her beforequiet, polite, eyes downcast, voice soft. How could I refuse? Besides, Oliver has his own room; theres space. But I hadnt a clue what I was signing up for.
The first few weeks, they made an effort: dishes cleared, floors swept, no noise. We even made a cleaning rotaSaturdays for them, Wednesdays for me. I thought, maybe theyve grown up. But by week three, it all fell apart.
Dirty plates crusted with dried food piled in the sink for days. Hair and sweet wrappers littered the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo smears, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room looked like a pigstyclothes strewn about, crumbs on the desk, unmade bed. Emily drifts around with a face mask and her phone, as if shes at a spa, not in my house.
I tried talking, reminding, pleading. Always the same reply: *We havent had timewell do it later.* But later never came. I started handing them the mop and cleaning spray wordlessly, hoping theyd take the hint. Nothing changed. Once, they spilt sauce on the tableclothjust left it. As usual, I cleaned up.
When I stepped into their room and saw the mess, I couldnt hold back: *Doesnt it bother you, living like this?*
Oliver didnt even blink. *Genius thrives in chaos.*
But I dont see genius. Just two adults whove decided pigs live betteras long as Mum cleans up after them.
Oliver promised to help with bills and shopping. In reality, he only pays utilities. Shopping happens *once* a weekbut takeaway sushi, pizza, the lot? Nearly daily. They offer to share, but its no comfort when the fridge stays empty. That money could feed the whole family.
Emily doesnt work; shes studying. She has a grant, but not a penny goes toward food or cleaning. It all vanishes on nonsense. When I suggested tighter budgeting, even a small contribution, she just shrugged, offended.
I raised Oliver alone. His father left before he was born. My parents helped, I worked twice as hard, saved, did everything for him. Never complained. I wont start nowbut watching my home turn into a dump is too much.
I tried talkingonce, twice, three times. Now its clear: they wont change. To them, Im just a nagging old woman who should be grateful they tolerate me under their roof.
Two months Ive put up with this. Enough. Ill say it plainly: either they sort themselves out, or they find student digs. Maybe there, theyll learn what it means to respect someone elses space.
Because Im done being their maid. I want peaceno stress, no towering dishes, no socks abandoned in the kitchen.
What would you do? Should I risk a row with my own son? Or keep ignoring the mess in a home I built with my own hands?
