My son told me I’m the one ruining his marriage. All I did was ask his wife to wash her own dishes.
I was only twenty-two when my husband left me with our two-year-old son. His name was Nigel, and back then, I thought he was my rock—solid, dependable. But the moment life demanded responsibility—bills, childcare, actual effort—he bolted. Ran off with some carefree woman, light as a summer breeze. Said he was “exhausted.” Didn’t want to “carry the weight.”
So there I was, alone with a toddler and a mountain of unpaid bills. Everything landed on me—nursery fees, work, the house, illnesses, shopping, even fixing the leaky tap myself. I worked dawn to dusk, then came home to scrub floors, cook soup, wash nappies, iron shirts. Now I can say it was hard, but back then? No time for words. Survival mode.
I raised my boy the best I could—with love, care, maybe too much of both. By twenty-seven, he couldn’t fry an egg, but he always had clean shirts, a full stomach, and the comforting certainty that “Mum will sort it.” I hoped marriage would finally turn him into a proper adult. Maybe then I’d breathe—take a part-time job, visit the seaside, live for myself. Instead?
“Mum, me and Poppy are moving in for a bit,” he announced one evening. “Just till we save up for our own place.”
What could I say? I shrugged and agreed. Young love, I thought. Surely Poppy would take over—cooking, cleaning, looking after my son. I’d grit my teeth and wait it out.
I was wrong.
Poppy was… how to put it kindly… utterly hopeless. No help. No cooking, no cleaning, not even a hint of effort. She lived on her phone, sipping lattes with mates, lounging in bed. Dishes piled up, laundry festered, crumbs multiplied like tribbles. Three months, I carried them all—my son, his wife, and her sheer laziness.
Meanwhile, I still worked full-time. Came home to a bombsite: empty fridge, sticky countertops, mouldy mugs in the sink, unwashed knickers in the bathroom. I shopped, cooked, scrubbed, rinsed, repeated—all in silence. Not even a “cheers” from Poppy.
Once, as I washed up, she strolled over and plonked a plate by the sink—one she’d apparently stored in her room for days, crusted with food and fruit flies. No shame. Just dropped it and swanned off. I gaped. Was this really a grown woman?
The next day, I snapped. When she dragged another dirty mug into the kitchen, I said, calmly:
“Poppy, love, have you ever considered washing a dish? Just once?”
She didn’t even blink. Just stared through me and left. By morning, they’d packed and gone. Not a goodbye.
That evening, my son called. Ice in his voice:
“Mum, why d’you have to ruin our marriage?”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Ruin it? By asking her to rinse a plate?”
He hung up.
Not a word since. And you know what? I don’t miss them. The house is quiet. Clean. Mine. I brew tea, binge my shows, and smile for the first time in ages. No more unpaid maid duty. No more exhaustion.
If that’s “ruining a marriage,” fine. It wasn’t a marriage—just a delusion. And I’m done with those.
