I’ve been staying at my mum’s for a week now—I couldn’t stand the mess at home any longer.
Growing up, tidiness wasn’t just a habit in our house—it was a way of life. Despite working and raising two kids, Mum always kept our flat spotless. Everything had its place, the floors shone, the fridge smelled fresh, and the air carried that comforting sense of home. I grew up believing that cosiness started with cleanliness, so when I got married, it never crossed my mind that anyone could live differently.
Three years into our marriage, and I’m trapped in endless chaos. Every time I come home from work, I’m tripping over clutter. The sink’s piled with dishes, crumbs cover the kitchen, the bin’s overflowing, and the fridge holds forgotten leftovers growing mould. The floors are sticky, the laundry’s piled high in the bathroom, and shoes litter the hallway until I deal with them myself.
Our daughter runs to greet me, clothes stained, tights ripped, hair tangled, wearing yesterday’s outfit. Just getting through the hall is a challenge—prams, shopping bags, toys everywhere, shoes scattered. Cupboards hang open, clothes spilling out. It doesn’t matter that I folded everything neatly that morning. Our spacious three-bed feels more like a cramped storeroom.
I’ve tried talking. Gently, calmly, no accusations. I’d say, “Olive, love, let’s just keep things a bit tidier—I can’t relax like this.” She’d nod, promise, but nothing changed. Before our daughter, we split chores fairly—cleaning, cooking, taking turns with the washing up. Once a week, we’d tackle the floors and dust together. It felt like teamwork.
Now, with me working late and Olive home all day with our little girl, all I ask is not to wade through piles of clothes, hunt for a clean mug among dirty dishes, or gather socks from every corner. I’m not refusing to help—I mop on Sundays, dust, take the bins out every morning. But I’m exhausted. Tired of coming home to more work instead of rest. Tired of digging the kettle out from under junk. Tired of pointless arguments.
In the end, I set an ultimatum: either the house was at least halfway decent in three days, or I’d leave. She laughed, thought I was joking. But when nothing had changed after three days—I packed a bag and moved in with Mum. It’s been a week now. Sleeping in my old room, eating proper roast dinners, opening the fridge without dreading what I’ll find.
I don’t want a divorce. I love Olive. I love our daughter. But I don’t understand how anyone can live like this. I’m not asking for much—just respect. Back home. That’s all. If that’s too much… well, I might have to choose between peace and love. Because living in constant chaos isn’t living. It’s just surviving.
