At just 22, my husband left me alone with our little son, Oliver. He was barely two at the time. My husband couldn’t bear the weight of family life—tired of working and spending money on us. Why provide for a family when you could splurge on yourself and a mistress? Bad as he was, at least we had each other. But once he was gone, the world’s weight fell on my shoulders.
Oliver started nursery, and I found work. There were days I dragged myself home exhausted, yet the house was always spotless: meals cooked, child fed, laundry washed and ironed. That’s how my mum raised me—our generation understood duty. I’ll admit, I spoiled Oliver a bit. By 27, he couldn’t even fry potatoes. But when he married Emily, I hoped she’d take over his care, and I could 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, do his laundry, and I’d manage. Instead, reality was a nightmare.
Emily was bone idle. She left dishes on the table, didn’t lift a finger to clean, never touched the vacuum. For three months, I waited on three people. Is this what I wanted in my later years?
While Oliver played the sole breadwinner, Emily did nothing. From morning till night—until he returned from work—she’d either gossip with friends or scroll mindlessly on her phone. Meanwhile, I still had my job. I’d come home to chaos: clothes strewn about, an empty fridge, no dinner. I’d trudge to the shop, haul groceries, cook, then scrub a mountain of dishes. Not once did Emily feel guilty.
One evening, as I washed up, she handed me a plate from their room—days old, crusted with mould and buzzing with flies. I clenched my teeth but held my tongue. The next time she did it, I snapped.
“Emily, if you’ve any decency, could you wash a single dish?” I said, forcing calm.
Did she apologise? Of course not. The next day, they moved out—rented a place. And Oliver claimed I was “destroying his marriage.” How? By asking his wife to wash a plate?
Thank heavens my home is peaceful again. Caring only for myself is a relief. But I can’t fathom it: what’s wrong with young people today? They can’t clean, can’t take responsibility. My son, whom I raised with such love, blames me for his troubles. All I wanted was for his wife to act like an adult.
Now I live for myself. Yet bitterness lingers: did I fail somewhere with Oliver? Or is this just how things are now—when no one remembers what it means to care for another? The lesson? Love shouldn’t mean doing everything for them—sometimes, it’s letting them learn to stand on their own.
