“Enough is enough!” — How one woman set her husband and son straight
I’m not made of steel. I’m just an ordinary woman who gets tired, who has headaches, who works a full day and still drags a heavy grocery bag home in the evening because there are two grown men in the house—well-fed and perfectly capable—who seem to think food magically appears on the table. When you’re pushed past your limit, sometimes the only thing left is to say out loud what’s been screaming inside you for ages.
That day was especially rough. The office was chaos, my boss was in a foul mood from the moment I walked in, and by the time my shift ended, I was exhausted. Standing at the bus stop, I realised I still had to pop into the supermarket—the fridge was empty, and at home, there was my husband, James, and our son, Oliver. James is forty-two, tall and solid, with an appetite to match. Oliver’s fifteen, a rugby player who demolishes everything on his plate after training.
I trudged home, bent under the weight of the bags, cursing myself for buying so much. My head throbbed with every step, but what choice did I have? If I didn’t do it, who would?
When I finally got through the door, James was already home, sprawled on the sofa watching telly. Not a single glance, not even a “How was your day?”—as if I were invisible. Oliver was still at training. I slipped into the bedroom, took a paracetamol, and lay down. Just fifteen minutes—to catch my breath, to steady myself.
The headache eased a little, but I still felt wrung out. Still, I dragged myself to the kitchen. Nothing but the blare of the telly, the clatter of dishes as I moved. I whipped up spaghetti bolognese and a simple salad—no frills, just something filling.
Oliver arrived later. I called them both to the table and sat down, only to hear the words that snapped something inside me.
“Spaghetti again?” James muttered. “Could’ve made something a bit more interesting.”
“I’d have fancied a roast,” Oliver chimed in, poking at his salad with his fork.
Not a single “How are you?” Not a word of thanks. They knew I’d had a headache. They’d seen me lugging bags through the door. Heard me sighing, barely keeping my eyes open. And all they could say was, “This isn’t good enough.”
I set my fork down carefully, looked at both of them, and—something just clicked.
“You don’t like dinner? Don’t eat it. Starting today, things change. I’m done being your personal chef and packhorse. Fancy a roast? Cook it yourself. Want a Sunday lunch? Get peeling potatoes. I’m not hauling shopping, slaving over the stove, or cleaning up after you anymore. From now on, I’ll cook—yes, for everyone. But one of you does the dishes, the other tidies up. Sort it out between you. I’ll only wash what’s in the laundry basket. Socks under the bed? They can stay there.
“Every Saturday, we all go to the shops together. I’m not a workhorse. I’m not your servant. I’m not your on-call cook.”
I stood, smoothed my hair, and walked toward the bathroom. Pausing at the door, I added, “I’m having a shower and going to bed. You two figure out who’s washing up. Just remember—if I wake up to a dirty kitchen tomorrow, there’ll be no breakfast. Goodnight.”
I left. Silence followed. Even the telly went off. I didn’t look back. I knew they were sitting there, staring after me. Stunned. Maybe even—for the first time in years—thinking.
And you know what? I didn’t feel guilty. Just relieved. Because sometimes, to be heard, you have to stop whispering and start speaking up. Clearly. And without apology.
