Tuesday, 14th March
I never thought I’d admit this, but I’m exhausted. Worn out by the stacks of dirty dishes, floors that haven’t seen a mop in weeks, and the lingering stench of last night’s takeaway. It feels less like my own flat and more like a squalid shared house with slovenly tenants—except the tenants are my own son and his so-called “beloved,” who’s been living here rent-free for two months, treating the place like her personal holiday let.
Daniel is twenty. He’s studying part-time at university, freshly returned from his gap year, and landed a decent job. On paper, he’s a proper grown man—earning his keep, contributing to bills, not lazing about. I was proud of him. Until *that* conversation.
“Mum,” he said one evening, “Emily’s home life is a nightmare. Her parents are at each other’s throats, throwing things, never letting her study. Can she stay with us a bit? Just till things calm down. We’ll be quiet, no hassle.”
I sympathised. Emily had visited before—soft-spoken, polite, always ducking her gaze. How could I refuse? Daniel had his own room, after all. But I hadn’t a clue what I was inviting in.
The first fortnight, they made an effort: washing up, hoovering, keeping the noise down. Even drew up a rota—Saturdays for them, Wednesdays for me. I thought, *Maybe they’ve actually grown up.* Then, three weeks in, it all fell apart.
Dishes crusted with dried food sat in the sink for days. Floors littered with hair, crisp packets, sweet wrappers. The bathroom—streaks of shampoo, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room? A proper sty. Clothes strewn about, crumbs littering the desk, bed perpetually unmade. Emily drifts through the flat in a face mask, phone in hand, as if she’s at a spa retreat, not squatting in *my* home.
I’ve asked, reminded, pleaded. Same answer every time: “We’ll get to it.” But “later” stretches into weeks. I started handing them the sponge and bin bags without a word—no nagging, just a silent nudge. Even that didn’t stick. Once, they spilled gravy on the tablecloth and just… walked off. Left it for me.
Last week, I opened their door to that bombsite and lost it.
“Doesn’t it bother you, living like this?”
Daniel didn’t even blink. “Creative minds thrive in chaos.”
Only I don’t see any creativity. Just two grown adults happy to live in filth while Mum plays skivvy.
He promised to chip in—groceries, bills. In reality, he covers the utilities and buys a token bag of shopping once a week. Yet they’ll order Deliveroo nightly—burgers, sushi, kebabs. They offer me bites, as if that makes up for the bare fridge. That money could feed us properly for days.
Emily doesn’t work. She’s a full-time student, gets her maintenance loan, but hasn’t put a penny toward food or cleaning. Spends it all on herself. When I suggested budgeting, she just shrugged, offended.
I raised Daniel alone. His father left before he was born. My parents helped, but I worked double shifts, scrimped, built this life for us. Never threw the past in his face. Still won’t. But watching him and his girlfriend turn my flat into a tip? I’m done.
I’ve tried talking. Once, twice, a dozen times. Pointless. They think I’m nagging. That I ought to be grateful they *let* me live here.
Two months I’ve put up with it. No more. I’ll say it plain: either they clean up, or they pack up and find a student digs. Maybe then they’ll learn what it means to respect someone else’s space.
Because I’m tired of being their maid. I want to live in peace—no mess, no stress, no stranger’s socks on my kitchen counter.
What would you do? Confront your own child, or bite your tongue and endure the chaos? Between principle and peace, I know which I’m choosing. Sometimes love means handing them the mop—and the door key.
