I told her, “If you had even an ounce of conscience, you’d wash a single dish.” And my son accused me of tearing his family apart.
I was only 22 when my husband walked out on us. Just like that—left me with our two-year-old boy, Alfie. Guess all the responsibility was too much for him—working, paying bills, thinking about someone besides himself. He wanted an easy life, fun, younger women. So one day, he just never came home. Doesn’t matter how bad a husband he was—it was still easier together. But suddenly, everything was on my shoulders.
Alfie started nursery, and I went back to work. Day after day. Some nights, I’d drag myself home completely knackered. But the house was always tidy, dinner was on the stove, and my son was clean, fed, in pressed clothes. That’s how my mum raised me. Our generation was just built different.
I won’t lie—I spoiled Alfie. By 27, the lad couldn’t even fry an egg. I did everything for him. Then he got married, and honestly? I was relieved. “Let his wife take over now,” I thought. Maybe I’d finally have time for myself—pick up a side job or just rest after all those years. But no such luck.
Alfie announced, “Mum, me and Emily need to stay with you for a bit while we sort things out.” Fine, I let them. Young couple, I thought—she’ll cook, clean, do the washing, like a proper wife should. I could manage. Except… it was the exact opposite.
Emily was—charitably—no homemaker. Didn’t clean, didn’t wash clothes (not even Alfie’s), never lifted a finger. Couldn’t even put a mug in the sink. For three months, I lived like I was running a dodgy student flat—except I was the only one on kitchen duty. Cooking for three, scrubbing, laundry, taking the bins out. And them? Emily would lounge about scrolling her phone or out with her mates. Alfie worked, but she? Pure idleness.
I’d come home from a shift to absolute chaos. Dishes piled in the sink, crumbs on the table, hair all over the floor. Fridge? Empty. No stew, no soup, not even toast. Everything fell to me—pop to the shops, buy food, cook, then clean up after everyone.
This went on for weeks. One day, Emily waltzed into the kitchen while I was washing up and plonked a filthy plate on the counter. Old food, bits stuck to it, even fruit flies—clearly left in her room for days. I snapped.
I said, “Emily, if you’ve got even a shred of decency, wash a dish. Just once. I’m not your maid. I work, I’m exhausted. You’re young, able-bodied—what’s so hard about rinsing a plate?”
Know what she did? The next day, they moved out. Rented a flat and left without so much as a goodbye. Then Alfie had the nerve to say, “You’re tearing my family apart. Nothing’s ever good enough for you.” Me? The one who fed them, cleaned up after them, put up with their laziness for months?
I don’t interfere now. My house is clean and peaceful—just me looking after myself. Bliss, coming home to no burnt pans on the hob. Kids these days? No idea what hard work is. Expect everything handed to them on a silver platter. And respect? Not a drop of it.
