**Diary Entry 15th November**
“I’m not your cook or your maid, expected to wait on your son hand and foot! If youve brought him to live with us, you can jolly well look after him yourself.”
“Emily, make sure Ethan has something proper for tomorrow. No sandwicheshe wants roast chicken, like last time, and some mash. And” Oliver, eyes glued to the telly where some Formula 1 cars screeched past, waved lazily toward the armchair. “Grab his things while you’re at it. They need washing, or hell have nothing decent for school.”
Emily froze, the knife hovering over the chopping board. The smell of fried onions and garlic, meant for her own supper, vanished under the sharp sting of irritation rising in her throat. She turned slowly. Piled on the armchair was a crumpled messjeans, T-shirts, socks twisted into stiff little balls, all reeking faintly of teenage sweat and pavement grime.
She said nothing. Just stared at the back of Olivers head, how he lounged on the sofa, absorbed in the roar of engines. He hadnt even glanced at her. As if she were some appliance he could command without a second thought. Behind the closed door of the spare room sat Ethan, her so-called “temporary” lodgerfour months now. The furious clatter of his keyboard and muffled swearing suggested another battle in some online game. The idea of washing his own clothes or making his own food? Unthinkable. Thats what Emily was for.
“I’m not your cook or your maid,” she said, her voice steady, cold, cutting through the TVs noise. “If youve brought him here, you take care of him.”
Oliver frowned, finally turning. His expression was pure bafflement, as if shed spoken in tongues.
“Whats got into you? Its not hard, is it? Youre doing laundry anywaywhats two more shirts? And you cook for everyone. Why make a fuss over nothing?”
The simplicity of it hit her like a slap. To him, she was just part of the household machinerylike the fridge or the washing machine. Fill it with mess, press a button, out comes order. He never noticed her exhaustion after work, the hours she spent cooking while they lounged. She was just a function.
Without another word, she marched to the armchair, pinched the heap of laundry between two fingers, and headed not for the washing machinebut the balcony.
“Where dyou think youre going?” Oliver sat up sharply.
Emily flung open the balcony door. The icy November air stung her face. One step, then anotherand with a flick of her wrist, the clothes tumbled over the railing, vanishing into the dark below.
She shut the door behind her. Oliver gaped, face turning crimson as he lurched to his feet.
“Have you lost your mind?!” he bellowed.
“No,” she said calmly, returning to her pan. “Ive found it. I agreed to live with you, not adopt your grown son. From now on, you fend for yourselves. Wash, cook, clean. My patience has run out. And tell Ethan his school uniforms on the lawn. Better fetch it before the binmen do.”
The roar of engines died as Oliver spluttered. Ethans door creaked openhis usual bored gamers face now slack with confusion.
“Dad, whats going on?”
“Whats going on?” Oliver jabbed a finger toward the balcony. “Your clothes are fertilising the garden! She chucked them! Go fish them out before the neighbours dog does!”
The humiliation on Ethans face was almost satisfying. King of his virtual realm, now reduced to scrabbling for his laundry under the blocks windows. He scuttled past without a word, shoved on his trainers, and fled.
Oliver stood there, heaving like a bull. Waiting for her to crackto scream, cry, apologise. But she just kept cooking. That icy calm infuriated him more than any row.
“Youll regret this, Emily,” he hissed. “Badly.”
And with that, the war began.
A week later, the flat was a battlefield. Oliver and Ethan, defeated in their siege of passive resistance, had shifted tactics. They left the kitchen a disasterburnt pans, congealed takeaways, a bin bag swelling like a rancid tumour by the door. They thought shed break. That her need for order would force her to surrender.
She didnt.
Her routine was simple: work, her own meals, her own clean corners. Their mess? A museum exhibit she walked past.
Then, the final strike. Oliver marched into her pristine bedroomher sanctuaryand deliberately ruined her new cream coat. Pizza crumbs, pickle juice, a greasy stain spreading like a sneer.
When she found it, something inside her snapped. Not anger. Just clarity.
She didnt shout. She called a locksmith.
By the time Oliver and Ethan returned, six bulging bin bags sat on the landing. Their things. The new lock clicked shut behind her.
The pounding started immediately. “Emily! Open this door! Whats wrong with you?!”
She sipped her tea. “Your belongings are outside. This isnt your home anymore.”
His roar of rage was almost comical. “I live here! Ill break the damn door down!”
“Try,” she said. “Thats breaking and entering.”
Silence. Then the shuffle of bags, muttered curses. Eventually, footsteps retreating.
She aired the flat, scrubbed every trace of them away. The silence afterward wasnt emptyit was peace.
A week later, Oliver turned up, scruffy and wheedling. “Lets talk. This has gone too far.”
She took the bag of her things hed accidentally packed.
“Ethans got nowhere proper to stay. Were crammed at Mums”
“Not my problem,” she said. “My lifes finally begun. Dont come back.”
The door shut. The lock held.
Last I heard, hes in some dingy bedsit. Ethans back with his mum.
As for me? Ive signed up for pottery classes. Weekends are minesometimes friends, sometimes just me, a book, and a flat that stays clean.
Funny, isnt it? How losing them felt like finding myself.
**Lesson learned: A man who treats you like an appliance doesnt deserve a place in your homeor your life.**
