For a week now, I’ve been staying at Mum’s—I couldn’t bear the mess at home any longer.
I grew up in a house where order wasn’t just habit—it was a way of life. Mum, despite work and two children, always managed to keep the house spotless. Every item had its place, the floors gleamed, the pantry smelled of fresh bread, and the air hummed with warmth. I grew up believing comfort began with cleanliness. So when I married, it never crossed my mind things could be otherwise.
Yet here I am, three years later, trapped in endless chaos. Every evening, returning from work, I prope through the wreckage. The sink groans under mountains of dishes, crumbs litter the counter, the bin overflows, and the fridge cradles forgotten meals veiled in mould. The floors stick. The laundry heaps like a landslide. Shoes clutter the hall until I shift them myself.
My daughter leaps into my arms, her tights torn, hair wild, dress smeared with jam. Navigating the corridor feels like a trial—prams, shopping bags, strewn toys, boots. Cupboards gape open, spilling their guts. And this after I’d tidied everything that very morning. Sometimes, I can’t tell if we live in a three-bed terraced house or a windowless storage room.
I’ve tried talking—softly, reasonably, without blame. “Emily, love, just a bit of order, please. It’s hard living like this.” She’d nod, promise, then nothing changed. Before our daughter, chores were fair: we split the cleaning, took turns with meals. Sundays meant scrubbing floors side by side, dusting shelves, washing up in shifts. It felt like partnership.
But now, with me working late and Emily home all day with the baby, all I ask is not to wade through piles of clothes, hunt for a clean mug among the wreckage, or fish socks from under the couch. I’m not shirking help—I still mop every weekend, dust, take out the bins. But I’m tired. Tired of coming home to more work. Tired of digging the kettle from under junk. Tired of petty, pointless rows.
Finally, I set terms: either order returns within three days, or I leave. She laughed, thinking it a joke. But when those days passed and not a single sock had moved, I packed in silence and left for Mum’s. A week now. I sleep in my old room, eat hot shepherd’s pie, open the fridge without fearing something might stare back.
I don’t want a divorce. I love Emily. Love my little girl. But I don’t understand how anyone lives like this. I’m not asking perfection. Just respect—for the home, for me, for what we’ve built. And if that’s too much… well, then I may have to choose between peace and love. Because living like this isn’t life. It’s just surviving.
