My son is a mess; my daughter-in-law is no better. Im exhausted from living in their chaos.
I never thought Id say it out loud, but Ive had enough. Im fed up with the dirty dishes, the floors that havent seen a broom in weeks, the lingering smell of stale food, and feeling like I live with careless flatmates instead of in my own home. And all of this because of my own son and his love, whove been living here for two months as if theyre on holiday.
Oliver is twenty. Hes studying remotely, just finished his military service, and found a job straight away. An adult, theoretically independent, who contributes to the bills and isnt idle. I was proud of himuntil that wretched conversation.
“Mum,” he said one day, “its hard for Emily at home. Her parents are always arguing, throwing thingsshe cant even study in peace. Can she stay here for a bit, till things calm down? We wont be any trouble.”
I felt sorry for her. Id met her beforeshy, polite, with downcast eyes and a quiet voice. How could I say no? Besides, Oliver has his own room, and theres space. But I didnt expect the gift this would turn out to be.
The first few weeks, they made some effort: dishes cleared, floors swept, no noise. We even made a cleaning rota: Saturdays 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 up in the sink for days. Hair and wrappers littered the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo stains, hair in the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their room looked like a den: clothes strewn about, crumbs on the desk, bed unmade. Emily strolls around with a face mask and her phone in hand, as if shes at a spa, not in my house.
I tried talking, reminding, pleading. Always the same reply: “We havent had time, well do it later.” But “later” never came. I started handing them the mop and cleaning supplies, wordlessly. Not even that worked. Once, they spilled sauce on the tablecloth and just walked away. Again, I was the one who cleaned it.
When I walked into their room and saw the state of it, I couldnt stay quiet:
“Doesnt it bother you, living like this?”
Oliver didnt even blink. “Genius thrives in chaos,” he said.
But I dont see genius in this chaos. Just two adults whove decided pigs live better, with Mum to pick up after them.
Oliver promised to help with shopping and bills. In reality, he only pays the utilities. He shops once a week, but takeaway sushi, pizza, and the like arrive almost daily. They offer me some, but its no comfortthe fridge stays empty. With that money, we could feed the whole family.
Emily doesnt work; shes studying. She has a grant, but she hasnt put a single pound toward food or cleaning. It all goes on nonsense. When I suggested tightening the budget, even a small contribution, she just shrugged, offended.
I raised Oliver alone. His father left before he was born. My parents helped, I worked twice as hard, saved, did everything for him. I never held it against him, and I dont want to start now. But watching my home turn into a pigsty is too much.
I tried talking calmly. Once, twice, three times. Now its clear: they 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 tell them plainly: either they sort themselves out, or they move into student digs. Maybe there, theyll learn what it means to respect others work and space.
Because Im tired of being their maid. I want to live peacefully, without stress, without dishes stacked to the ceiling or socks left in the kitchen.
What would you do? Should I risk a row with my son? Or keep turning a blind eye to this mess, in a home I built with my own hands?
Sometimes, love means setting boundarieseven when it hurts.
