My son said I was ruining his marriage. All I did was ask my daughter-in-law to wash her own dishes.
I was only twenty-two when my husband left me with our two-year-old son. His name was Nigel, and back then, I thought he was a dependable man, a rock. But the second life demanded responsibility, care, or family expenses, he bolted. Ran off with another woman—charming and breezy as a summer’s day. Said he was exhausted. Didn’t want to “deal with the hassle.”
So there I was, alone with a toddler and a pile of unpaid bills. Everything landed on my shoulders—nursery fees, work, housework, illnesses, groceries—I even fixed the leaky tap myself. I worked from dawn till dusk, came home, and still scrubbed floors, made soup, washed nappies, ironed shirts. Now, I can say it was hard, but back then? No time for words. Just survival.
I raised my son with all the love I had. Did I spoil him? Maybe. A little too much, perhaps. At twenty-seven, he still can’t fry an egg, but he’s always had clean shirts, a full belly, and the comforting certainty that “Mum will sort it.” I hoped marriage would finally make a man of him, that I could finally ease up—maybe take a part-time job, go on a little holiday, live for myself at last. But no such luck.
“Mum, Lucy and I are going to stay with you for a bit,” he announced one evening. “Just until we save enough for a place.”
What could I say? I shrugged and agreed. Thought: Fine, let them stay a little while—newlyweds and all. I hoped Lucy would take over looking after my son—cooking, cleaning, laundry. I’d grin and bear it.
I was wrong.
Lucy turned out to be—how to put this nicely—utterly useless. No help whatsoever. No cooking, no cleaning, not even the slightest inclination to lift a finger. She spent all day on her phone, sipping lattes with friends, lounging about. Never washed a dish, never did laundry, couldn’t even tidy up after herself. For three months, I carried all three of them—my son, his wife, and her sheer laziness.
And I still went to work. Came home in the evening to what looked like a hurricane aftermath—empty fridge, dirty plates, crumbs everywhere, sticky rings on the table, laundry piled high in the bathroom. Off I went to the shops, cooked, cleaned, washed dishes again—all in silence. Lucy couldn’t even muster a “ta.”
Once, I was washing up when she strolled over and plonked a plate on the side of the sink—one she’d apparently hoarded in her room for days. It had crusted-on food and fruit flies. Not a shred of shame. Just dropped it and walked off. I stood there, staring, wondering how a grown woman could be like this.
The next day, I’d had enough. When she brought down another dirty mug, I kept my voice steady. “Lucy, love, if you’ve got any decency at all, could you maybe wash your own dishes just once?”
She didn’t answer me. Not a word. Just looked straight through me and left. By morning, they’d packed up and moved out. Didn’t even say goodbye.
That evening, my son rang. His voice was ice. “Mum, why are you doing this? Why ruin my marriage?”
I nearly laughed. “That’s what you call ‘ruin’? Asking someone to wash a plate?”
He hung up.
Haven’t heard from him or Lucy since. And you know what? I don’t miss them. The house is quiet again. Clean. Peaceful. I make myself tea, put on my favourite telly show, and for the first time in ages, I smile. I’m not a maid anymore. I’m free.
And if that means I “ruined a marriage”—well, maybe it wasn’t a marriage at all. Just an illusion. And I’m done living in one.
