I told her, “If you had even an ounce of conscience, you’d wash a single dish yourself.” But my son accused me of tearing his family apart.
I was only 22 when my husband left us. Just like that—gone. I had our two-year-old boy, Oliver, in my arms. It’s clear the weight of responsibility was too much for him—working, providing, thinking beyond himself. He wanted an easy life, fun, younger women. So one day, he didn’t come home. Doesn’t matter what kind of husband he was—it’s always harder alone. And suddenly, everything fell on me.
Oliver started nursery, and I went to work. Day after day. There were evenings I dragged myself through the door, dead on my feet. But the house was always tidy, food on the stove, my boy clean, fed, in pressed clothes. That’s how my mum raised me. Her generation was different.
I won’t lie—I spoiled Oliver. At 27, he can’t even fry an egg. Did everything for him. Then he married Emily. I thought, good—let his wife take over now. Maybe I’ll finally have time for myself. Pick up extra work or just rest after all these years. But no.
Oliver announced, “Mum, we’ll stay with you a while, just till we sort things out.” Fine, I said. Young love, let them be. Emily would cook, clean, do the washing—like a proper wife should. I’d manage. Except it was the opposite.
Emily was… well, not much of a homemaker. Didn’t tidy, didn’t scrub, didn’t wash her clothes or Oliver’s. Wouldn’t even rinse a cup. Three months in, and I was living like a dorm warden—short of assigning kitchen rotas. I cooked for three, cleaned, did laundry, took out bins. And them? Emily spent her days scrolling her phone or out with mates. Oliver worked, but she? Nothing.
Coming home from a shift, I’d find chaos. Dishes piled in the sink, crumbs on the table, hair on the floor. The fridge? Empty. No stew, no soup, not even toast. It all fell to me—pop to the shop, buy food, cook it, then clean up after them.
Weeks passed. One day, Emily walked into the kitchen as I washed up and calmly set a plate by the sink. Old, crusted with food, buzzing with flies. Must’ve sat in her room for days. I snapped.
I said, “Emily, if you’ve got any decency at all, wash a dish. Just once. I’m not your maid. I work, I’m exhausted. You’re young, strong, grown. What’s so hard about rinsing your own plate?”
Know what she did? Next day, they moved out. Rented a flat and left without a word. Oliver later told me, “You’re tearing my family apart. Nothing’s ever good enough. You just nag.” Me? The one who fed them, cleaned up, put up with their laziness for months?
I don’t interfere now. My house is clean, quiet. I look after myself. Bliss—coming home to no burnt pans on the stove. Kids today don’t know the meaning of hard graft. Want everything handed to them. And respect? Not a scrap.
The lesson? Sometimes the weight you carry isn’t yours to bear. Let go—you’ll breathe easier.
