“My son said I’m tearing his family apart. All I did was ask his wife to wash her own plate.”
I was only twenty-two when my husband left me with our two-year-old son. His name was James, and back then, I believed he was solid as oak—steady, dependable. But the moment life demanded responsibility—care, bills, the weight of family—he vanished. Ran off with some carefree, pretty woman, light as air. Said he was tired. Didn’t want to be “tied down.”
So there I was, alone with a toddler and a mountain of unpaid bills. Everything fell on me—nursery fees, work, the house, sickness, shopping, even fixing the bloody leaky tap myself. I worked dawn till dusk, came home, and still scrubbed floors, cooked stews, washed nappies, ironed shirts. Now, I can say it was hard, but back then? No time for words. Just survival.
I raised my son the best I could—with love, with patience. Did I spoil him? Maybe. Too much, perhaps. At twenty-seven, he can’t even fry an egg, but his shirts? Always pressed. His belly? Always full. That unshakable belief *Mum will fix it.* I thought marriage might finally make a man of him—that I could finally breathe, maybe take a part-time job, see a bit of the world, live for myself at last. But that’s not how it played out.
“*Mum, me and Emily are going to stay with you for a bit,*” he announced one evening. “*Just till we save enough for our own place.*”
What could I say? I shrugged and agreed. Thought, *Fine, let them stay a while. Newlyweds, after all.* Emily, I hoped, would step up—cook, clean, take care of my son. I’d manage.
I was wrong.
Emily was—how to put this kindly—utterly useless. No help. No cooking, no cleaning, not even the slightest effort. She spent all day glued to her phone, sipping lattes with mates, lazing about. Didn’t wash a single dish, didn’t lift a duster, didn’t even tidy after herself. Three months, I carried them all—my son, his wife, and her sheer laziness.
And I still worked. Came home to chaos—fridge empty, plates piled high, crumbs trodden into the carpet, sticky rings on the coffee table, laundry rotting in the basket. Off I’d go, shopping, cooking, scrubbing, washing up—all in silence. Not so much as a *ta, love* from Emily.
One time, I was at the sink, elbows deep in suds, when she walked over—*barely glanced at me*—and plonked down a plate. A plate she’d clearly hoarded in her room for days, crusted with food and buzzing with flies. No shame. Just dropped it and sauntered off. I stood there, staring, thinking, *No grown woman acts like this.*
Next day, I snapped. When she brought another filthy mug, I kept my voice calm but firm.
“*Emily, for pity’s sake, could you wash a dish just once in your life?*”
Not a word. Just a look—like I was nothing—then she walked away. By morning, they’d packed and gone. No goodbye.
That night, my son called. Voice like ice.
“*Mum, why’d you do it? Why wreck my marriage?*”
I nearly laughed.
“*Wreck it? By asking her to clean a plate?*”
He hung up.
Haven’t heard from either since. And you know what? I don’t regret it. The house is quiet now. Tidy. Mine. I make my tea, put on my shows, and smile for the first time in ages. No more feeling like some unpaid maid. No more exhaustion.
And if that means I “*ruined a family*”? Then it was never a family. Just a delusion. And I’m done living in one.
