I never thought I’d say this out loud, but… I’m exhausted. Sick of the dirty dishes, the unwashed floors, the never-ending smell of yesterday’s takeaway, and the constant feeling that I’m not living in my own flat but in some rundown shared house with slovenly housemates. And all because of my own son and his “beloved,” who’s been staying with us like she’s on some free holiday for the past two months.
Ben’s twenty. He’s studying part-time at uni, just got back from his gap year, and started a job straight after. You’d think—grown man, standing on his own two feet, chipping in for bills, not lazing about. And honestly, I was proud of him. Until *that* conversation.
“Mum,” he said one day, “Ellie’s having a rough time at home. Her parents are always rowing, throwing things, not letting her focus on her studies. Can she stay with us for a bit? Just till things settle down. We’ll keep it quiet—no hassle.”
I felt bad for the girl. She came round before—always polite, shy, hardly spoke above a whisper. How could I say no? Plus, Ben’s got his own room—plenty of space. But I never imagined the mess this would bring.
The first few weeks, they tried. Washed up, hoovered, kept things tidy. Even made a rota: Saturdays were their day, Wednesdays mine. I thought, *Maybe they’ve actually grown up.* But three weeks in, it all fell apart.
Dirty plates with crusted-on food piled in the sink for days. Hair, wrappers, crumbs on the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo stains, hair in the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room became a total tip—clothes everywhere, crumbs on the desk, bed never made. Ellie strolls around with her face mask and phone like she’s at a spa, not crashing in someone else’s home.
I tried asking, reminding, nudging. Always the same: “Haven’t had time, we’ll do it later.” And “later” stretched into weeks. So I started handing them the hoover and cloths—no nagging, just silence. Didn’t help. Once, they spilled sauce on the tablecloth—just walked off. Left it. And again, I cleaned it up.
When I walked into their room the other day and saw the carnage, I snapped:
“How can you even stand living like this?”
Ben didn’t even blink. “Creative minds thrive in chaos.”
Only, I don’t see any creativity in this chaos. Just two adults happy to live like pigs while mum plays maid.
Ben promised he’d help—buy groceries, cover some bills. Reality? He pays his share of the rent. Buys food once a week, yet they order takeaways nearly every night. Sushi, pizza, Deliveroo… sure, they offer me some, but what’s the point when the fridge stays empty? That money could feed us all for a week.
Ellie doesn’t work—full-time student. Gets her maintenance loan, but not a penny’s gone towards food or cleaning. Spends it all on herself. When I suggested budgeting differently, maybe pitching in, she just shrugged like I was being unreasonable.
I raised Ben alone. His dad walked out when I was still pregnant. My parents helped, I worked double shifts, scraped by, did everything for him. Never threw it in his face. Don’t want to now. But watching him and his girlfriend turn my flat into a tip? I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve tried talking—once, twice, three times. Now I get it—pointless. They won’t change. To them, I’m just nagging. Like *I* should be grateful they let me live here.
Two months of this. I’m done. Thinking of laying it straight: either clean up, or pack your bags and move into halls. Maybe then they’ll learn what respect and personal space mean.
Because I’m tired of being their unpaid cleaner. I just want to live peacefully—no stress, no mountains of dishes, no stray socks on the kitchen counter.
What would you do? Confront him properly? Or keep biting my tongue, pretending not to see the mess in the home I’ve built from nothing?
