My Son Brought His Girlfriend to Live in Our Flat and I Have No Idea How to Ask Her to Leave

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 min

Only behind the pages of my private diary could I ever confess the sort of things I’m about to write today. I’m filled with such resentment, I can barely stand it anymore. Im prepared for harsh words, but I know that other fathers whose sons have suddenly grown up into men might just understand me.

You bring a child into this world, raise him as best you can, go through the heartbreak of divorce because you cant stand his mother any longer, do your utmost to give your son a good childhood despite him having only one parent. You pick him up from school, work two jobs to keep afloat, spend your evenings at the cooker as if thats your third shift, save up for the latest mobile, pay for all his clubs and bits, and just when you think you can see things settling a bit, he comes home and says:

Dad, Emily will be staying with us.

With whom? In our little two-bedroom flat in Birmingham? Shes moving into my son’s room? Is she planning to eat with us, too? Is she going to start using the washing machine? Or have I somehow ended up with an extra housekeeper?

My lad looked absolutely chuffed when he told me, convinced Id be beaming and jumping for joy, maybe already clearing out some wardrobe space for Emily.

She seems like a nice enough girl, but that doesnt mean I want a stranger moving in. Theyre adults nowlet them take out a mortgage or rent a place like everyone else! Whats with all the penny-pinching so they dont have to pay rent when its my nerves on the line?

But in the end, I let Emily in. After all, my sons got as much right to the flat as I do. If he wants to bring his girlfriend home, that’s only fair Or at least thats what I tell myself. The truth is, I didn’t want her here. If Im honestsomething I promised myself I would beit grinds on me. My mates rib me about it: Arent you thinking about your sons happiness? What kind of dad are you?

Now, when I come home, its all too much. Even from the front door, Im annoyed. There are trainers and boots scattered in the hall, the cooker looks like a disaster zone (which means Emily’s been cooking) So what if shes used up the groceries I just bought? Im the penny-pincher in this house, not her. What happens when Im halfway through cooking a Sunday roast and realise theres no flour left? Or those endless queues for the bathroom?

I wont lieI want Emily out of my flat. I don’t need another housekeeper or someone rearranging my routines.

And then it struck me: why shouldnt I bring someone home? Why did I spend all these years raising my son, hiding any sign that I might have a personal life too? Hes got his privacy, so why dont I invite over a bloke and squeeze him into our 44 square metres, see how he likes it?

Its a strange sort of predicament, but its mine. And now, as a father of a young man, I realise just how odd it is to be in this situationa flat suddenly containing a stranger, all routine upended. Perhaps other fathers or parents will understand, perhaps not.

So, whats to be learned here? I suppose, after all the whinging, I can see Im not just sharing a flat, but letting go, bit by bit, of the boy I raised. As frustrating as it is, maybe what I really need is a little patienceand to remember that this is part of him growing up, even if it drives me up the wall some days.

Before It’s Too Late Natalie balanced a pharmacy bag in one hand and a folder of discharge papers in the other, fumbling with her mum’s flat keys as she locked up. Her mother stood stubbornly in the hallway, refusing to sit—though her legs visibly shook. “I can manage,” Mum insisted, reaching for the bag. Natalie gently blocked her with her shoulder, like easing a child away from a hot oven. “You’ll sit down now. And don’t argue.” She recognized that tone in her own voice—the one that emerged whenever things unraveled and she had to pull some semblance of order together: keep the documents in place, get the pills sorted, figure out whom to call. Her mother bristled at this, but today the silence between them was especially heavy. In the living room, Dad sat by the window in his faded check shirt, TV remote in hand—but the television was off. He stared not at the garden outside, but deep into the reflection on the glass, as if there were another channel playing. “Dad,” Natalie said as she approached, “I’ve brought the medicine the doctor prescribed. And here’s the referral for the CAT scan. We’ll go first thing tomorrow.” He nodded, a careful movement, precise as a signature. “No need to ferry me about,” he muttered. “I can do it myself.” “You’ll go yourself, will you?” Mum retorted, then softened at the sound of her own voice. “I’m going with you.” Natalie wanted to say her mother couldn’t handle the waiting around, that her blood pressure would spike and she’d end up in bed, refusing to admit it—but stayed quiet. A wave of irritation churned inside: why did everything always fall to her? Why couldn’t anyone just agree to do what needed doing, simply and without drama? She laid out the paperwork on the table, checked dates, clipped last week’s test results together, and felt the old exhaustion of always being “the responsible one.” She was forty-seven, had her own family, her job, her son’s mortgage to worry about—and yet, when something happened to her parents, she automatically became the point person, even if no one asked her to be. The phone rang—a call from the GP surgery. She stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. “Mrs. Parker?” The voice was young, politely formal. “It’s the consultant oncologist from the clinic. About your father’s biopsy results…” The word “biopsy” still felt alien, like it belonged to someone else’s life. “There is concern for a possible malignant process. We need to do further tests urgently. I understand it’s difficult, but time is of the essence.” Natalie gripped the edge of the table, steadying herself. In her mind’s eye flashed unwanted images: hospital corridors, IV drips, strangers’ faces, her mum’s frail back beneath a scarf. She heard her father cough in the other room—a cough that now sounded like confirmation. “A concern…” she repeated, “So it’s not definite, but…?” “We’re facing a high likelihood. I’d advise you not to delay,” said the doctor. “Come in first thing tomorrow, bring all relevant documents. I’ll see you without appointment.” Natalie thanked her, hung up, and stared at the cold stove, as though it might offer instructions for what to do next. When she returned to the lounge, her mother was already looking at her. “What is it?” Mum asked. “Tell me.” Natalie’s answer came out dry. “They’re concerned it could be cancer. We have to move quickly.” Mum sat down abruptly. Dad’s face didn’t change, but the knuckles clutching the remote blanched white. “So that’s it, then,” he murmured. “Lived to see the day.” Natalie wanted to say, “Don’t,” “It’s not certain,” but a lump in her throat choked off the words. She realised how much in their family was held together by not saying frightening things aloud—how hearing this word spoken seemed to thin the very walls of their lives. That evening, Natalie came home but couldn’t sleep. Her husband snoozed; her son messaged friends in his room; she sat in the kitchen, making lists—what to pack, what tests to retake, whom to call. She phoned her brother. “Sasha,” she said evenly. “They suspect something serious with Dad. We’re off to the clinic tomorrow.” “Suspect what?” he asked as if he hadn’t heard. “Cancer.” The silence on the line stretched. “I can’t do tomorrow,” he said at last. “I’m scheduled for a shift.” Natalie closed her eyes. She knew it was true; he really couldn’t get out of work. But a familiar resentment swelled: he was always the one who “couldn’t,” while she always could. “Sasha,” she said, her voice cracking. “This isn’t about shifts. It’s about Dad.” “I’ll come in the evening,” he replied quickly. “You know I…” “I know,” she interrupted. “I know you’re good at disappearing when things get scary.” She regretted it instantly, but the words were out. Sasha was quiet for a moment. Then, in a low breath—“Don’t start. You always want to control everything, then turn it against us.” Natalie hung up, feeling hollow. She listened to the hum of the fridge, realising now wasn’t the time for blame. But fear brought everything up, like weeds after rain. The next morning, they drove to the clinic together: Natalie at the wheel, Mum in the passenger seat, Dad in the back clutching the folder as if it contained something precious and fragile. At the reception, Natalie completed forms, showed ID, insurance, referrals. Mum tried to help but got names and dates confused. Dad stood a little apart, observing the corridor—the bald heads, the scarves, anxious faces—with the silent understanding of someone who’d joined the club unwillingly. “Mrs. Parker?” A nurse called. “This way, please.” Inside, the doctor paged through their files briskly. Natalie studied his fingers, his face, searching for a sign. His voice remained calm, yet his words bristled with hooks: “aggressive,” “staging,” “needs further clarification.” Dad sat stiffly, as if at a council meeting. “We’ll repeat several tests,” said the doctor. “And a new biopsy. Sometimes the samples aren’t sufficient.” “So you’re not certain?” Natalie asked. “Medicine rarely deals in certainties without absolute proof,” the doctor replied. “But we must act as if it’s serious.” That hit her harder than talk of suspicion. Act as if time is short. Natalie felt herself switch to emergency mode. Everything else—work, fatigue, plans—faded. Days blurred: mornings of phone calls and appointments, afternoons of queues and paperwork, evenings in her parents’ kitchen, pretending conversation was merely about logistics. “I’ll take leave,” Natalie said the second night, ladling soup. “Work will survive.” “You don’t need to,” Dad insisted. “You have your own life.” “Now’s not the time for pride,” Natalie set the bowl in front of him. Mum watched them, her lower lip trembling. She’d always been the strong one—through Dad losing his job, Natalie’s divorce, her brother getting into scrapes—so strong nobody asked how she coped. “I don’t want you…” Mum started, then hesitated. “Don’t want what?” Natalie met her eye. “Don’t want you to end up… unable to forgive each other.” Natalie almost said, ‘We already haven’t, but we never named it,’—but held her tongue. She didn’t sleep that night either, instead lying awake listening to her husband breathe, thinking of her father ageing. She recalled him teaching her to ride a bike as a child, how she was fearless then because his hand was always steady on the saddle. Now, she was the one holding on—not to a bike, but their fragile family. On the third day, her brother finally arrived—fruit bag in hand, apologetic smile on his face. “Hi,” he offered. Natalie felt her anger simmer. “Hi,” she replied curtly. They gathered in the kitchen; Mum sliced apples, Dad kept quiet. Her brother tried to fill the silence with work stories. “Sasha,” Natalie eventually snapped. “You grasp what’s going on?” “Of course I do!” he snapped back. “Then why didn’t you come yesterday? Why do you always pick what suits you?” His face drained of colour. “Someone has to work!” he fired back. “Money doesn’t just appear. You’ve always got your plans and your perfect life. And I’m—” “And you’re what?” Natalie pressed forward. “You’re a grown man, Sasha. Not a teenager.” Dad raised a hand. “Enough,” he said softly. But Natalie couldn’t stop herself—the fear and years of resentment spilling out. “You always disappeared when things were hard. When Mum was ill, when Dad was… drinking. You just checked out. I stayed.” Mum slammed the knife onto the board. “No, don’t dredge that up—it was a long time ago.” “Long ago,” Natalie echoed, “but it’s never really gone.” Sasha slapped the table. “You think sticking around was easy? You like being in charge, making everyone rely on you, then resenting them for it.” His words landed squarely where she never wanted to look. She always had to be needed—there was comfort and pain in that. To be needed gave her a right. “I don’t hate it,” she said softly, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. Dad stood up, moving slowly, each motion deliberate. “You think I don’t notice? You’re arguing over me as if I’m a thing to divide. As if I’m already—” He trailed off. Mum took his hand. “Don’t say it,” she whispered. Natalie suddenly saw her father not as “Dad,” but as a scared man on the edge of a diagnosis, doing his best not to show it. Shame swept through her. The phone vibrated on the table—a call from the laboratory. “Hello?” “Mrs. Parker? It’s the lab. We’ve discovered a mix-up with your father’s test samples. There’s a chance his results were switched with someone else’s—we’re investigating. We’ll need fresh samples tomorrow, free of charge. And the biopsy will be re-examined. Our apologies.” Natalie struggled to process the words—“mix-up,” “switched”—as if they didn’t belong to her world. “Excuse me—what does that mean?” “We found a barcoding error. Please come tomorrow morning,” the voice reassured. “We’re very sorry.” She put down the phone and stared at it, waiting for it all to make sense. “What is it?” her brother asked. She met his gaze. The silence seemed to swallow the room. “They… they may have mixed up the tests.” Mum clapped a hand to her mouth. Dad sat heavily, overcome. “So… it might not be…” her brother exhaled. Natalie nodded. But she felt not relief, but a hollow emptiness—as if someone cut a siren mid-scream and the quiet revealed all the damage their panic had done. Next day, they all returned to the clinic. Natalie drove her parents; Sasha arrived by bus. No one joked or spoke of the weather. They queued in silence, clutched tickets, listened for their names. Dad gave blood without a word. Natalie watched the needle, the dark red flowing into the tube. None of this was a film; it was their real life—a world where a misplaced barcode could overturn days in an instant. The revised results would take two days. In the waiting, panic faded—replaced by awkwardness. Mum busied herself, offering tea, asking if Natalie was tired. Dad grew quieter. Sasha called, just once or twice: “How are they?” Natalie replied in kind. She found herself longing for someone to simply say, “I’m sorry.” But nobody did—not knowing where to begin. When the new results arrived, Natalie was in standstill traffic on the North Circular. The doctor explained the initial finding was due to the lab error and an insufficient sample; there was no evidence of cancer now, but checks in six months were crucial. “So… it isn’t cancer?” Natalie’s voice broke. “Not at this time,” he confirmed. “But monitoring is still important.” She hung up and gripped the steering wheel, tears streaming down her face—not in relief, but as tension drained, leaving something deeper behind. That evening, they all gathered at her parents’ for a shop-bought pie—Natalie’s hands shook too much to bake. Sasha came bearing flowers for Mum. Dad sat in his armchair, gazing at them all as though they’d returned from a long journey. “Well then,” Sasha said with a tentative smile. “We can finally breathe.” Dad replied, “You can breathe out… but how do you breathe back in?” Natalie looked at him—he sounded tired, not reproachful. “Dad…” she started. But rather than excuse herself—“I meant well,” “I was just stressed”—she said simply, “I was scared. I started bossing everyone around, took it out on Sasha. Sorry.” Sasha dropped his eyes. “Me too,” he said. “I panicked. I buried myself in work. Sorry.” Mum sniffled, but didn’t cry; instead, sitting with Dad, clutching his hand. “And I…” Mum looked between her children. “I kept up the pretence that everything was fine. So you wouldn’t row, and so I wouldn’t feel scared either. It only pushed you further apart.” Dad squeezed her hand. “I don’t need you to be perfect. Just be here. Don’t use me as an excuse to fight.” Natalie nodded. The pain lingered; what had been said, couldn’t just disappear with apologies. But something shifted—they’d said out loud what was always left unsaid. “Alright,” Natalie managed, steadying her voice. “I won’t take over anymore. I’ll help, but you need to pitch in too. Sasha, can you come round weekly to check on Dad when the exams start? Not ‘if you can,’ but actually commit?” Sasha nodded, slowly. “Wednesdays, I’m off. I’ll be here.” “And I,” Mum added, “will stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’ll say when it’s too much—and I won’t lash out afterward.” Dad looked around and, faintly, smiled. “And we’ll go to the check-ups together, so there’s no more guessing.” Natalie felt a cautious warmth growing within. Not giddy relief, but a sense of possibility. After dinner, as they cleared up, Natalie paused in the kitchen. “Mum,” she said quietly, “I don’t really want to be in charge. I just worry that if I let go, everything will fall apart.” Mum studied her, softly. “Try letting go in bits. Not all at once. We’re learning too.” Natalie nodded, donned her coat, checked the lights, locked the kitchen door. On the landing, she lingered, listening to the quiet beyond the door: no shouting, no slammed doors, just muted voices. She made her way out, realising “before it’s too late” wasn’t about one terrifying phone call. It was about seizing the chance to speak up before fear could turn them all into strangers—and that second chance would have to be earned, not just in words but in Wednesdays, in visits, in small admissions that, while hard to give, held the family together better than any illusion of control.

04

My husband has always told me I’m not feminine enough. At first, he’d hint casually—saying if I wore more makeup, put on dresses, or acted “softer,” things would be better. But I’ve never been that kind of woman. I’ve always been practical, straightforward, not fussy. I work hard, solve problems, get things done. That’s always been me, and he knew it—I never pretended to be anyone else. Over time, his comments became more frequent. He started comparing me to women we saw on social media, to our friends’ wives, to colleagues. He’d say I looked more like a mate than a wife. I’d listen, sometimes we’d argue, but then we carried on. I never thought it was a big deal—just a difference in our relationship. But the day I buried my father, nothing seemed trivial anymore. I was numb. I couldn’t sleep or eat—my only thought was somehow getting through the funeral. I put on the first black clothes I found, skipped my makeup, barely touched my hair; I had no energy for anything else. Before we left, my husband looked at me and said, “Are you really going like that? Won’t you at least make a bit of an effort?” At first, I didn’t understand. I told him I didn’t care how I looked—I’d just lost my dad. He replied, “Still… people will talk. You look completely run-down.” I felt something strange, as if I’d been crushed from the inside. At the service, he mingled with the guests, offered condolences, looked serious. But he was distant with me—hardly touched me, didn’t ask how I was. When we passed a mirror, he quietly said I should “pull myself together a bit more,” that my dad wouldn’t want to see me in such a state. Back home after the funeral, I asked if my appearance really was all he’d noticed that day. If he saw how devastated I really was. He told me not to overreact; he was just sharing his opinion, that a woman shouldn’t let herself go “even at times like these.” Since then, I see him differently. But I can’t leave him. I feel like I can’t live without him. ❓ What would you say to this woman if she were sitting in front of you?

013

You’re Just Jealous “Mum, are you serious? The Ivy for dinner? That’s at least two hundred pounds per person!” James tossed his keys so hard they rattled against the wall. Kate glanced up from the stove, where she was stirring sauce, and immediately noticed her husband’s knuckles whitening as he gripped his mobile. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then swore under his breath and abruptly ended the call. “What’s wrong?” Without answering, James slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at his plate of potatoes. Kate turned off the hob, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and sat down opposite him. “James…” “Mum’s lost it. Completely lost the plot in her old age.” He looked up, and the anger and helplessness in his eyes made Kate’s heart ache. “Remember I told you about… Richard? From ballroom dancing?” Kate nodded. His mum had mentioned the new acquaintance a month ago – shyly, fiddling with the tablecloth, talking about joining the local community centre’s dance club and finding a charming partner who knew how to waltz gracefully. “Well,” James pushed away his plate, “she’s taken him to The Ivy. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a suit for eight hundred quid. Last weekend they went to Bath together – guess who paid for the hotel and tickets?” “Margaret, obviously.” “Bingo.” He rubbed his face wearily. “Mum saved up that money for years. For renovations, emergencies. Now she’s blowing it all on a bloke she’s known for six weeks. It’s insane…” Kate was silent, searching for the right words. She knew her mother-in-law well: hopelessly romantic, open-hearted, almost naive. The sort of woman who still believed in true love after nearly sixty years of life. “Listen, James,” she put a hand over his, “Your mum’s a grown woman. Her money, her choices. Don’t interfere. She won’t listen to anyone now, anyway.” “She’s making mistake after mistake!” “Maybe. But that’s her right. And honestly, I think you’re overreacting.” James shrugged but didn’t pull his hand away. “I just can’t stand watching her…” “I know, love. But you can’t live her life for her,” Kate soothed. “She has to own her decisions, even if we hate them. She’s perfectly capable.” James nodded gloomily. Two months passed quickly. The talk about Richard faded. His mum phoned less and less, sounded evasive – almost as if hiding something. Kate assumed the romance had fizzled out and stopped worrying. So when, on a Sunday evening, the doorbell rang and Margaret appeared on the doorstep, Kate was caught off guard. “Darlings! My dears!” Margaret swept into the flat, trailing flowery perfume. “He proposed! Look, just look!” A small ring sparkled on her finger, cheap but worn like the crown jewels. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s just so… so wonderful!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, laughing girlishly. “I never thought, at my age… That I’d feel this again…” James hugged his mother, his shoulders suddenly relaxing. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Perhaps Richard really did love her, and they’d imagined the worst. “Congratulations, Mum,” James smiled as he stepped back. “You deserve happiness.” “And I’ve already put the flat in his name! Now we’re truly a family!” Margaret crowed, and everything froze. Kate stopped breathing. James flinched as if he’d hit a glass wall. “What…what did you say?” “The flat,” Margaret waved airily. “So he knows I trust him. It’s love, darlings, real love! And love means trusting each other.” Silence thickened until the tick of the clock in the lounge was audible. “Margaret,” Kate began carefully, “You signed over the flat to someone you’ve known for three months? Before the wedding?” “So what?” Margaret lifted her chin. “I trust him. He’s good, honest – not what you two think. I know you judge him.” “We don’t,” Kate stepped closer, “But… why not at least wait until you’re married? Why rush?” “You don’t understand. It’s a sign of my love,” Margaret folded her arms. “What do you two know about real feelings? About trust?” James finally unclenched his jaw: “Mum…” “No!” She stamped her foot. For a split second, Kate saw not a grown woman but a stubborn teenage girl. “I don’t want to hear it! You’re just jealous of my happiness! You want to ruin it for me!” Margaret stormed out, clipping the doorframe with her shoulder. The front door slammed, glass trembling in the cabinet. The wedding was small – a simple registry office, a vintage store dress, a little bouquet of Marks & Spencer roses. But Margaret shone as though she was marrying at Westminster Abbey. Richard – stocky, balding, with an oily smile – was the portrait of chivalry: kissing Margaret’s hands, holding out her chair, pouring Champagne. The perfect groom. Kate watched him over her wine glass. Something felt off. His eyes – cold, calculating, whenever he looked at Margaret. Professional tenderness. Practiced concern. She said nothing. What was the point if no one would listen? For months, Margaret rang every week – breathless with delight, listing new restaurants and theatres Richard whisked her to. “He’s so attentive! Yesterday he brought me roses – for no reason at all!” James listened, nodded, then hung up and stared for ages at nothing. Kate didn’t prod. She waited. A year passed in a blink. Then came a knock at the door… Kate opened up to find a woman she barely recognised. Margaret looked ten years older – deeply lined, eyes sunken, shoulders hunched. In one hand, a battered suitcase. The same she’d taken for that trip to Bath. “He threw me out,” Margaret whimpered. “Filed for divorce and threw me out. The flat… it’s his now. On paper.” Kate stepped aside wordlessly. The kettle boiled fast. Margaret sat in the armchair, cradling her tea, and cried – quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so much. Did everything for him. But he just…” Kate didn’t interrupt. She stroked Margaret’s back and waited for the tears to stop. James returned an hour later. He paused in the doorway, saw his mother, and his face turned to stone. “Son,” Margaret stood, reaching for him. “Please, I’ve nowhere to go… Can I stay? Just a room – children are supposed to care for their parents, it’s…” “Stop.” James held up a hand. “Stop, Mum.” “I haven’t any money, not a penny – spent it all on him. My pension’s tiny, you know…” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you,” James sank onto the sofa, as if buckling under a sack of bricks. “Told you: take your time. Get to know him. Don’t sign over the flat. Remember what you said to me?” Margaret’s eyes dropped. “That we don’t know what real love is. That we’re just jealous of your happiness. I remember it all, Mum!” “James…” Kate tried to intervene, but James shook his head. “No. She needs to hear this.” He turned to his mother. “You’re a grown woman. You chose. You ignored everyone who tried to help. And now you want us to fix your mess?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s exactly why I’m angry!” James sprang up, his voice cracking. “I’m tired, Mum! Tired of watching you throw your life away and then running to me for rescue!” Margaret shrank, pathetic and small. “He fooled me, James. I really loved him, I swear…” “Loved him enough to give your flat to a stranger. Brilliant, Mum. Just brilliant. Need I remind you Dad bought that place?” “I’m sorry.” The tears ran faster now. “I was blind. Please… give me another chance. I’ll never…” “Adults take responsibility for their actions,” James spoke softly now, exhausted. “You wanted independence? Here it is. Find somewhere to live. Get a job. Sort things out yourself.” Margaret left in tears, her sobs echoing down the landing. Kate spent the night at James’s side, in silence, holding his hand. He didn’t cry, just lay staring at the ceiling and sometimes heaved a heavy sigh. “Did I do the right thing?” he asked at dawn. “Yes.” Kate stroked his cheek. “It was harsh. And it hurt. But it was right.” In the morning James phoned his mother and found her a bedsit on the outskirts. He paid six months’ rent in advance. That was the last help he agreed to give. “From now on, Mum – you’re on your own. We’ll help with the court if you’re going to fight it. We’ll pay what’s needed. But you’re not moving in here…” Kate listened and thought about justice. Sometimes, the harshest lesson is the only one that sticks. Margaret got exactly what her blindness had earned. And with that came both sadness and peace. And the feeling that, somehow, things would work out in the end – though she couldn’t guess how.

05

I’m 38 and Spent Years Thinking I Was the Problem: That I Was a Bad Mum, a Bad Wife, That Something Was Wrong With Me Even Though I Was Doing It All—But Inside, I Felt Completely Empty Every Day at 5am I’d Make Breakfasts, Pack Lunchboxes, Prepare Uniforms, Get the Kids Ready for School, Tidy the House, Head to Work, Stick to Schedules, Meet Deadlines, Attend Meetings—Always With a Smile. No One at Work Had a Clue. At Home, Everything Ran Like Clockwork: Lunch, Chores, Bath Time, Dinner, Listening to the Kids’ Stories, Sorting Their Squabbles, Giving Hugs, Fixing Problems. To Outsiders, My Life Seemed Perfect—A Family, Job, Good Health. No Visible Tragedy to Explain How Empty I Felt. It Wasn’t Sadness—It Was Exhaustion That Sleep Couldn’t Fix. I Woke Up Tired, My Body Ached, Noise Irritated Me, Repetitive Questions Drained Me. Sometimes I’d Wonder—Ashamed—If My Kids Would Be Better Off Without Me, If I Just Wasn’t Cut Out to Be a Mum. I Never Missed a Responsibility, Never Lost My Cool More Than ‘Normal.’ So No One Noticed. Not Even My Partner—If I Said I Was Tired, He’d Say, “Every Mum Gets Tired.” If I Lacked Motivation, He’d Call It ‘Laziness.’ So I Stopped Saying Anything. Some Evenings I’d Sit in the Bathroom in Silence, Not Crying, Just Staring at the Wall. The Thought of Leaving Came Quietly, Not as Drama but as Cold Logic: Disappear for a Few Days, Stop Being Needed—Not Because I Didn’t Love My Kids, but Because I Had Nothing Left to Give. The Day I Hit Rock Bottom Wasn’t Dramatic—Just an Ordinary Tuesday. My Child Asked for Simple Help, and I Just Stared at Him, Head Empty, Chest Tight. I Sat Down on the Kitchen Floor, Unable to Get Up. My Son Looked Afraid: “Mum, Are You OK?” I Couldn’t Even Answer. Nobody Came to Help. No One Came to Save Me. I Just Couldn’t Pretend to Be ‘Fine’ Anymore. I Only Sought Help When I Had Nothing Left. The Therapist Was the First to Say What No One Had: “This Isn’t Because You’re a Bad Mum.” And She Told Me What Was Really Wrong. I Realized No One Helped Me Because I Never Stopped Functioning—As Long as a Woman Keeps Doing Everything, the World Assumes She Can Keep Going. No One Asks About the Ones Who Never Fall. Recovery Wasn’t Quick or Magical—It Was Slow, Uncomfortable, and Guilt-Ridden: Learning to Ask for Help, to Say ‘No,’ to Not Always Be Available. Understanding That Rest Doesn’t Mean You’re a Bad Mum. I’m Still Raising My Kids. I Still Work. But I No Longer Pretend to Be Perfect. I Don’t Think One Mistake Defines Me. And Most of All—I Don’t Believe Wanting to Run Away Means I’m a Bad Mum. I Was Just Exhausted.

05

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Son Brought His Girlfriend to Live in Our Flat and I Have No Idea How to Ask Her to Leave