I’ve been staying at my mum’s for a week now—I just couldn’t stand the mess at home any longer.
Growing up, order wasn’t just a habit in our house—it was a way of life. Despite working full-time and raising two kids, Mum always kept our flat spotless. Everything had its place, the floors sparkled, the fridge smelled fresh, and the air carried a warmth that felt like home. I learned early on that comfort starts with cleanliness. When I got married, it never even crossed my mind that things could be different.
Yet three years into my marriage, I’m trapped in endless chaos. Every evening, I come home from work and trip over the mess. A mountain of dirty plates in the sink, crumbs scattered across the kitchen, the bin overflowing, and leftovers in the fridge growing mould. The floors are sticky, laundry piles up in the bathroom, and shoes clutter the hallway until I move them myself.
My daughter runs to greet me, her clothes stained, tights torn, hair tangled, looking like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Getting through the corridor is a challenge—prams, shopping bags, toys strewn everywhere, shoes left where they were kicked off. Cupboard doors hang open, clothes spilling out. I can’t tell if we live in a spacious three-bed house or a storage cupboard without windows.
I’ve tried talking about it. Gently, calmly, without blame. “Emma, please, can we at least keep some order? I can’t function like this.” She’d listen, nod, promise to do better—but nothing changed. Before our daughter was born, we split chores fairly—cleaning, cooking, it was fifty-fifty. Every weekend, we’d mop floors, dust, take turns washing up. It felt like a partnership.
Now, though, I work late, and Emma stays home with our little one. All I ask is not to wade through heaps of laundry, hunt for a clean mug among unwashed dishes, or pick socks off the sofa. I still help—every Sunday, I scrub floors, wipe dust, take the bins out before work. But I’m exhausted. Tired of coming home to more work, not rest. Tired of digging through clutter just to make tea. Tired of petty arguments over nothing.
In the end, I gave her an ultimatum—three days to bring some order to the house, or I’d leave. She laughed, thinking I was joking. But when, after three days, nothing had changed, I packed my things without a word and moved back to Mum’s. A week later, I’m still here. Sleeping in my old room, eating proper roast dinners, opening the fridge without fear of something crawling out.
I don’t want a divorce. I love Emma. I love my daughter. But I can’t understand how anyone lives like this. It’s not much to ask—just respect. For our home. For me. For what we’ve built together. And if that’s too much… well, maybe I’ll have to choose between peace and love. Because living in constant chaos isn’t living. It’s just surviving.
