My son has turned into a proper slob, and his girlfriend is his spitting image. Im exhausted from living in their mess.
I never thought Id say it out loud, but Ive had enough. Enough of the dirty dishes, the floor that hasnt seen a broom in weeks, that lingering smell of leftovers, and the feeling of living with neglectful housemates instead of in my own flat. And all because of my own son and his “darling,” whove been camping here like its a holiday home for the past 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 theoryindependent, 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 bit, just till things calm down? We wont be any trouble.”
I felt sorry for her. Id met her beforeshy, polite, eyes down, voice soft. How could I say no? Especially since Oliver has his own room, and theres space. But I never expected the *gift* that would turn out to be.
The first few weeks, they made an effort: dishes put away, floor swept, no noise. We even had a cleaning rota: Saturdays, their turn; Wednesdays, mine. I thought maybe theyd actually grown up. But three weeks later, it all went downhill.
Dirty plates with crusted-on food sat in the sink for days. Hair and wrappers littered the floor. The bathroom? Shampoo smears, hair clogging the drain, soap scum everywhere. Their bedroom looked like a den: clothes in heaps, crumbs on the desk, bed never made. Emily wafts around with a face mask on, phone in hand, like shes at a spa, not in *my* home.
I tried talking, reminding, nudging. 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 didnt work. Once, they spilled sauce on the tableclothleft it. Just walked off. And guess who cleaned it? Me.
When I walked into their room and saw the carnage, I couldnt hold back:
“Does it not bother you, living like this?”
Oliver, deadpan, replied:
“Great minds thrive in chaos.”
Except I see no greatness in this chaos. Just two adults whove decided its convenient to live like pigs and let Mum pick up after them.
Oliver promised to chip ingroceries, bills. In reality, he only pays the utilities. Groceries, once a week, but Deliveroo for sushi, pizza, and the rest? Nearly every night. They offer me some, but it doesnt warm my heartthe fridge stays empty. That money could feed a family.
Emily doesnt work; shes a student. She gets a maintenance loan, but not a penny goes toward food or cleaning. It all vanishes into her little luxuries. When I gently suggested tightening the budgetjust a bit of helpshe 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 resented it. And I dont want to start now. But watching my flat turn into a tip? I cant take it.
I tried talking. Once, twice, three times Now its clear: they wont change. They think Im just a nag, that I should be grateful they tolerate me under the same roof.
Two months, Ive put up with it. But enoughs enough. Ill say it straight: either sort yourselves out, or its student halls for you. Maybe there, theyll learn what it means to respect someone elses space and effort.
Because Im done being their unpaid cleaner. I want to live peacefully, without stress, without towers of dirty dishes or socks in the kitchen.
What would you do? Risk a row with your son? Or keep ignoring the disaster zone in a home Ive built myself?
