I told her, “If you had an ounce of decency, you’d wash a single dish just once.” But my son accused me of tearing his family apart.
I was only 22 when my husband walked out on us. Left with a two-year-old boy—Oliver. He’d been weighed down by responsibilities—working, providing, thinking beyond himself. But he wanted an easy life: fun, freedom, younger women. So one day, he just never came home. It doesn’t matter what kind of husband he was—life was still harder alone. Overnight, everything landed on my shoulders.
Oliver started nursery, and I went back to work. Day after day. Some nights, I’d drag myself home exhausted. But the house was always tidy, dinner on the stove, my boy clean, fed, in pressed clothes. That’s how my mum raised me. Our generation was different.
I’ll admit—I spoiled Oliver. At 27, he couldn’t even fry potatoes. I did everything for him. Then he married. I thought, *Brilliant, let his wife take over. Finally, I’ll have time for myself—maybe a side job or just rest after all these years.* But no.
Oliver announced, “Mum, me and Emily will stay with you a while, just till we figure things out.” Fine. Let them. I assumed Emily would cook, clean, do the washing—what a wife should. I’d manage. Turned out, the opposite happened.
Emily was… well, not the homemaking type. Didn’t tidy, didn’t wash—not her clothes, not Oliver’s. Wouldn’t even put a mug in the sink. Three months in, it felt like student digs—only without a cleaning rota. I cooked for three, scrubbed, laundered, took out the bins. Them? Emily scrolled her phone or went out with mates. Oliver worked; she lazed about.
Coming home from shifts, I’d find chaos—dirty plates stacked in the sink, crumbs on the table, hair on the floor. The fridge? Empty. No stew, no soup, not even scrambled eggs. It all fell to me: shop, cook, clean up after everyone.
Weeks passed. Once, Emily walked into the kitchen while I was washing up and calmly set a plate by the sink—crusted with food, buzzing with flies. Must’ve sat in her room for days. I snapped.
“Emily, if you’ve got even a shred of respect, wash a dish. Just once. I’m not your maid. I work, I’m tired. You’re young, capable—what’s so hard about rinsing a plate?”
Know what she did? Next day, they moved out. Found a flat, left without a word. Later, Oliver said, “You’re breaking us apart. Nothing’s ever good enough for you. You nitpick.” *Me?* The one who fed them, cleaned up, put up with their laziness for months?
I don’t interfere now. My home’s quiet, tidy. I look after *me*. Bliss—coming back to no burnt pans on the hob. Kids today don’t know hard work. Want everything handed to them on a silver platter. Not an ounce of respect.
