**Diary Entry**
I was only twenty-two when my husband walked out, leaving me alone with our little boy, Oliver. He’d just turned two. My husband couldn’t handle the weight of family life—earning, spending, caring for us. Why provide for a family when you could spend it all on yourself and a mistress? However difficult marriage had been, at least I hadn’t been alone. But once he left, the world felt like it was crushing me.
Oliver started nursery, and I went back to work. By evening, I was drained, yet the house was always spotless—meals cooked, clothes washed and ironed. That’s how my mother raised me; our generation understood duty. Maybe I spoiled Oliver a little. By twenty-seven, he couldn’t even fry an egg. When he married Emily, I thought she’d take over caring for him, and I’d finally focus on my own life—hobbies, maybe even a side job. Just some peace.
But it didn’t work out that way. Oliver announced they were moving into my flat in Manchester—”just for a while.” I wasn’t thrilled, but I agreed. I assumed Emily would cook, clean, do the laundry—I’d manage. Instead, it was a disaster.
Emily was bone-idle. She left dishes piled up, clothes strewn about, never lifted a hoover. Nothing. For three months, I looked after three people. Is this what I deserved in my later years?
While Oliver played the breadwinner, Emily didn’t work. All day, until he came home, she’d chat with friends or scroll on her phone. Meanwhile, I still had my job. I’d return to chaos—mess everywhere, the fridge empty. So off I’d go to Tesco, haul groceries back, cook dinner, then scrub a mountain of dishes. Not once did Emily show remorse.
One evening, as I washed up, she handed me a plate from their room—leftovers gone mouldy, tiny flies buzzing. I bit my tongue. But the next time she did it, I snapped.
“Emily, if you’ve got any decency, could you wash a dish just once?” I kept my voice even.
Did she apologise? No. The next day, they moved out—rented a place. Then Oliver accused me of trying to wreck his marriage. How? By asking his wife to clean up after herself?
Thank heavens my home is peaceful again. Just me, my routines, no chaos. But I can’t shake the bitterness—what’s wrong with young people today? They won’t lift a finger, won’t take responsibility. The son I raised with such love now blames me for his troubles. All I wanted was for his wife to act like an adult.
Now I live for myself. Still, that question lingers: did I fail somewhere raising Oliver? Or is this just how things are now—when no one remembers how to care for anyone else?
