**Diary Entry**
I never thought Id say this aloud, but Ive had enough. Enough of the dirty dishes, the floors untouched by a broom for weeks, that lingering smell of leftover takeaways, and the unsettling feeling of living with careless housemates rather than in my own flat. And all because of my own son and his “darling,” whove been crashing here like its a holiday retreat for two months.
Oliver is twenty. Hes studying remotely for his degree, just finished his national service, and landed a job straight after. A grown man, in theoryself-sufficient, contributing to bills, not lazing about. I was proud of him. Until *that* conversation.
“Mum,” he said one day, “its rough for Emily at home. Her parents are always rowing, throwing thingsshe cant even study in peace. Can she stay here a while, just till things settle? We wont be any trouble.”
I felt sorry for her. Id met her beforequiet, polite, eyes downcast, soft-spoken. How could I refuse? Especially since Oliver has his own room; theres space. But I never expected the *gift* it would turn out to be.
The first few weeks, they made an effort: dishes put away, floors swept, no noise. We even set up a cleaning rotaSaturdays, their turn; Wednesdays, mine. I thought they mightve actually grown up. But three weeks in, it all fell apart.
Dirty plates with crusted leftovers piled in the sink for days. Hair and crisp packets littered the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo smears, hair clogging the drain, soap scum. Their room looked like a denclothes strewn about, crumbs on the desk, bed never made. Emily wanders around in a face mask, phone in hand, like shes at a spa, not in *my* home.
I tried talking, reminding, pleading. Always the same: “We havent had time, well do it later.” Except “later” never came. So I started handing them the mop and cleaning sprayno nagging, just silence. Even that changed nothing. Once, they spilled gravy on the tableclothleft it. Just walked off. And again, *I* cleaned it.
When I stepped into their room and saw the carnage, I couldnt stay quiet:
“Doesnt it bother you, living like this?”
Oliver didnt blink. “Genius thrives in chaos.”
Except I see no genius here. Just two adults who find it convenient to live like pigs and let Mum pick up after them.
Oliver promised to chip ingroceries, bills. In reality, he only pays utilities. Groceries, once a week, but Deliveroo for burgers and kebabs? Nearly every night. They offer me some, but it doesnt warm my heartthe fridge stays empty. That money couldve fed us properly.
Emily doesnt work; shes a student. Gets a maintenance loan but hasnt put a penny toward food or cleaning. All goes on her little luxuries. When I suggested tightening the belt, just a bit of help, she shrugged, offended.
I raised Oliver alone. His dad left before he was born. My parents helped, I worked twice as hard, scrimped, did everything for him. Never held it over him. And I dont want to start now. But watching my flat turn into a dump? I cant take it.
I tried talking. Once, twice, three times. Now its clear: they wont change. They think Im just a nagging old woman, that I should be *grateful* they tolerate me under the same roof.
Two months Ive put up with this. But enoughs enough. Ill say it straight: either step up or move out to student halls. Maybe there, theyll learn what it means to respect someone elses space and effort.
Because Im done being their maid. I want to live peacefully, without stress, without towers of dirty dishes or socks left in the kitchen.
What would you do? Risk a row with my own son? Or keep turning a blind eye to this mess, in a home Ive built with my own hands?
