“I was only 22 when my husband left me alone with our little boy, Oliver. He was barely two at the time. My husband walked out, unable to handle the weight of family life—he grew tired of working and spending his money on us. Why provide for a family when he could splurge on himself and his mistress? However flawed he was as a husband, life had been easier together. But once he was gone, the world’s weight fell squarely on my shoulders.
Oliver started nursery, and I took on a job. There were days I came home dead on my feet, but the house was always spotless: meals cooked, the child fed, laundry washed and ironed. That’s how my mum raised me—our generation understood duty. I’ll admit, I spoiled Oliver a touch. By 27, he couldn’t even fry potatoes. But when he married, I hoped his wife, Emily, would take over caring for him, and I could finally focus on myself—hobbies, maybe even a side job. In short, live in peace.
But it didn’t work out that way. Oliver announced they’d be moving into my flat in Manchester—*just for a while*. I wasn’t thrilled, but I agreed. I assumed Emily would cook, do his laundry, and I’d put up with the disruption. Instead, it became a nightmare.
Emily was bone idle. She never cleared the table, washed a dish, or touched the laundry—didn’t even pick up the hoover. Absolutely nothing! For three months, I waited on three people. Is this what I deserved in my later years?
While Oliver decided he’d be the sole breadwinner, Emily didn’t work. From morning till evening, until he got home, she’d either gossip with friends or scroll through her phone. Meanwhile, I still had my job. I’d return to chaos—clothes strewn about, the fridge empty, no dinner. I’d trudge to Tesco, haul groceries back, cook a meal, then scrub stacks of dirty dishes. Emily never batted an eyelid.
Once, as I was washing up, she handed me a plate that had sat in their room for days—mouldy scraps and tiny flies stuck to it. I clenched my teeth but held my tongue. The next time she did it again, I snapped.
*‘Emily, if you’ve got even a shred of decency, you could at least wash a dish once in a while,’* I said, keeping my voice steady.
Did she apologise? Not a chance. The next day, they moved out—rented a place of their own. And Oliver claimed I was *trying to ruin his marriage*. How, exactly? By asking his wife to clean up after herself?
Thank God my home is peaceful again. I look after just myself now, and it’s a relief. But I can’t fathom—what’s wrong with young people today? They can’t lift a finger around the house, let alone take responsibility. My son, the boy I raised with so much love, blames me for his problems. All I wanted was for his wife to act like an adult.
Now I live for myself. But there’s bitterness in my heart—did I go wrong somewhere raising Oliver? Or is this just the way of the world now, where no one remembers how to care for one another?”
