“I told her, ‘If you had even a shred of decency, you’d wash a single dish just once.'” And my son accused me of tearing his family apart.
I was only 22 when my husband walked out. Left me with a two-year-old boy. Alfie. Family life must have weighed him down—work, bills, responsibilities beyond himself. But he wanted something else: an easy life, distractions, younger women. So he vanished. One day, he just never came home. It didn’t matter what kind of husband he’d been—having him around still made things simpler. Back then, the weight of the world crashed onto my shoulders.
Alfie started nursery, and I went back to work. Day after day. Some evenings, I’d drag myself home, barely alive. 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 like that.
I’ll admit, I spoiled Alfie. By twenty-seven, he couldn’t even fry an egg. Did everything for him. Then he got married. I was almost relieved—let his wife take over. I’d finally have time for myself. Maybe pick up extra work or just rest after all these years. But no such luck.
Alfie announced, “Mum, me and Poppy are going to stay with you a bit, just till we figure things out.” Fine, I let them. Thought, young love, they’ll sort themselves. Poppy would cook, clean, do the washing—what a wife should. I could endure it. Except it went the opposite way.
Poppy was… not what you’d call domestic. Never tidied, never cleaned, never washed a thing—not hers, not Alfie’s. Wouldn’t even rinse a mug. For three months, I lived like a dorm matron, minus the chore rota. Cooked for three, scrubbed, laundered, took out the bins. And them? Poppy scrolled her phone all day or trotted off with her mates. Alfie worked, while she lazed about.
Coming home after a shift, I’d find chaos. Plates crusted in filth in the sink, crumbs on the table, hair on the floor. The fridge, empty. No roast, no stew, not even scrambled eggs. Everything fell to me—drag yourself to the shop, lug the groceries, cook, then clean up after everyone.
Weeks rolled on like this. Once, Poppy wandered into the kitchen while I was elbow-deep in suds and calmly set a plate by the sink. Old, food welded to it, fruit flies buzzing. Must’ve been festering in their room for days. That’s when I snapped.
I said, “Poppy, if you’ve got a scrap of decency, wash a dish. Just once. I’m not your maid. I work, I’m shattered. You’re young, strong, a grown woman. What’s so hard about rinsing a plate?”
Know what she did? The next day, they moved out. Rented a flat and left without a word. Later, Alfie said to me, “You’re tearing my family apart. Nothing’s ever good enough for you. You just nag.” Me? The one who fed them, scrubbed after them, put up with their sloth for months?
I don’t interfere anymore. My house is quiet and clean now. Just me to worry about. Bliss, coming home to no burnt pans crusted on the hob. Kids these days don’t know the meaning of work. Want everything handed to them on a silver platter. And respect? Not a drop.
