My son is chaos incarnate; his girlfriend is just the same. Im exhausted from living in their mess.
I never thought Id say it out loud, but Ive had enough. Im sick of the dirty dishes, the floor that hasnt seen a broom in weeks, the lingering smell of last weeks takeaway, and feeling like I live with slovenly housemates rather than in my own home. And all because of my own son and his “love,” whove been crashing here for two months as if theyre on holiday.
Oliver is twenty. Hes studying remotely, just finished his gap year, and landed a job straightaway. An adult, supposedly independent, who chips in with bills and isnt idle. I was proud of him. Until that damned conversation.
“Mum,” he said one day, “Emilys having a rough time at home. Her parents are always rowing, throwing thingsshe cant even study in peace. Can she stay here a while, just till things calm down? We wont be any trouble.”
I felt sorry for her. Id met her beforequiet, polite, eyes always downcast, voice soft. How could I say no? Besides, Oliver has his own room; theres space. But I wasnt prepared for the nightmare this would become.
The first few weeks, they made an effort: dishes cleared, floor swept, no noise. We even made a cleaning rotaSaturdays for them, Wednesdays for me. I thought maybe theyd grown up. But by week three, it all fell apart.
Dirty plates with dried-on food piled in the sink for days, hair and crisp packets littered the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo smears, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their bedroom looked like a tip: clothes strewn about, crumbs on the desk, bed unmade. Emily wanders around in a face mask, phone in hand, as if shes at a spa, not in my house.
I tried talking, reminding, pleading. Always the same answer: “Havent had time, well do it later.” But “later” never came. I started handing them the mop and cleaner outright, wordlessly. Even that didnt work. Once, they spilled sauce on the tableclothjust walked off. And again, I was the one cleaning up.
When I stepped into their room and saw the carnage, I snapped:
“Doesnt it bother you, living like this?”
Oliver didnt even blink. “Creative minds thrive in chaos,” he said.
But I dont see creativity in this chaos. Just two adults whove decided pigs live better and their mum should pick up the slack.
Oliver promised to chip ingroceries, bills. In reality, he only covers utilities. He does one weekly shop, but the Deliveroo orderssushi, pizza, kebabsare near-daily. They offer me some, but its no comfort when the fridge stays empty. That money could feed us properly.
Emily doesnt work; shes at uni. She gets a grant, but hasnt put a penny toward food or cleaning. Spends it all on nonsense. When I suggested budgeting, even a token contribution, she just shrugged, offended.
I raised Oliver alone. His dad left before he was born. My parents helped, I worked twice as hard, saved, did everything for him. Never threw it in his face. And I dont want to start now. But watching my home turn into a pigsty? I cant take it.
I tried talking calmly. Once, twice, three times. Now its clearthey wont change. They think Im just a nagging old woman who should be grateful they “tolerate” me under their roof.
Two months Ive put up with this. But enoughs enough. Ill say it plain: either they sort themselves out, or they find student digs. Maybe there, theyll learn to respect other peoples space and effort.
Because Im done being their maid. I want peaceno stress, no towers of dirty dishes, no socks left on the kitchen counter.
What would you do? Should I risk a row with my son? Or keep turning a blind eye to this disaster, in a home I built with my own hands?
