For the past week, I’ve been staying at my mum’s place—I couldn’t stand the mess at home any longer.
I grew up in a house where order wasn’t just a habit—it was a way of life. Mum, despite working full-time and raising two kids, always kept the flat spotless. Everything had its place, the floors gleamed, the fridge smelled fresh, and the air carried that comforting feeling of home. I learned early on that cosiness starts with cleanliness. When I got married, it never even crossed my mind that anyone could live differently.
Three years into the marriage, though, I was trapped in endless chaos. Every evening, coming home from work, I’d literally trip over the mess. The sink piled high with dirty dishes, crumbs scattered across the kitchen, the bin overflowing, and in the fridge—forgotten leftovers growing mould. The floors were sticky, the bathroom had a mountain of laundry, and shoes were left in the hallway until I put them away myself.
My daughter would run up to me, her clothes smudged and tights torn, hair tangled, dressed in something that hadn’t seen the washing machine in days. Just getting through the hall was a challenge—prams, shopping bags, toys scattered everywhere, shoes. Every cupboard hung open, clothes spilling out. And this was after I’d tidied it all myself that morning. You’d never guess we lived in a spacious three-bedroom flat—it felt more like a cluttered storage cupboard.
I tried talking about it. Gently, calmly, without blame. “Emily, love, can we just keep some order? It’s exhausting living like this.” She’d listen, nod, promise to do better—but nothing changed. Before our daughter was born, we had a fair system: cleaning and cooking were split evenly. Once a week, we’d scrub the floors, dust the shelves, take turns washing up. It felt like teamwork.
Now, though, with me working late and Emily home all day with our little one, all I ask is not to step over piles of laundry, not to hunt for a clean mug among the unwashed dishes, not to gather socks from every corner of the house. I’m not refusing to help—I mop the floors every Sunday, dust the shelves, take the bins out in the mornings. But I’m worn out. Tired of coming home only to start cleaning again. Tired of digging the kettle out from under clutter. Tired of pointless arguments.
In the end, I gave an ultimatum: either the house shows some sign of order in three days, or I leave. She laughed, thinking I was joking. But after three days of absolutely no change, I packed my things in silence and moved back to Mum’s. It’s been a week now. I sleep in my old room, eat warm shepherd’s pie, open the fridge—and don’t dread seeing something alive in there.
I don’t want a divorce. I love Emily. I love our daughter. But I don’t understand how anyone can live like this. I’m not asking for perfection. Just respect—for our home, for myself, for our marriage. And if that doesn’t happen… well, I might have to choose between peace and love. Because living in constant chaos isn’t living. It’s just surviving.
