**Diary Entry November 14th**
*”Im not your bloody housekeeper or maid to scrub and feed your son too! If youve brought him to live with us, you can damn well look after him yourself!”*
The words spilled out before I could stop them. My grip tightened around the knife Id been using to chop onions for my own dinner. The warm, savoury smell of garlic and butter had vanished, replaced by the acrid sting of my own anger rising in my throat. I turned slowly.
There it wasa crumpled heap of teenage laundry dumped over the armchair: jeans stiff with dirt, sweat-stiffened T-shirts, socks twisted into hard little knots. The whole mess reeked of adolescent neglect, that peculiar mix of musty trainers and cheap deodorant.
I said nothing. Just stared at the back of Olivers head as he lounged on the sofa, eyes glued to some Formula One rerun. He hadnt even bothered to look at me when hed barked his orderslike I was some bloody voice assistant, programmed to obey. Next door, behind a closed door, sat the source of it all: Ethan, sixteen years old, Olivers son, whod been “temporarily” crashing with us for four months now. From the furious clacking of his keyboard and the occasional shout at his screen, he was deep into some online battle. The thought of washing his own clothes or making his own dinner clearly hadnt crossed his mind. Why would it? Thats what I was for.
*”I saidIm not your housekeeper, Oliver. If youve moved him in, you take care of him.”*
My voice didnt waver. It cut clean through the roar of engines blaring from the telly.
Oliver frowned, finally turning his head. He looked genuinely baffled, as if Id just spoken in bloody Mandarin.
*”Whats got into you? Its not that hard, is it? Youre already doing laundry. Whats two more shirts? And you cook for everyone anyway. Why make a fuss?”*
He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that something in me snapped. To him, it *wasnt* hardbecause hed never had to do it. I was just another appliance in the house. Fill the washing machine, empty the fridge, cook the meals. He never noticed the hours I spent at the stove after work while he and Ethan lounged about. He just *consumed* my time, my effort, like it was his due.
Without another word, I walked to the armchair, pinched the revolting pile of laundry between two fingers, and carried itnot to the washing machine, but straight to the balcony.
*”The hell are you doing?”* Oliver sat up, eyes narrowing.
I didnt answer. Just slid open the balcony door. The bite of November air hit my face as I stepped out, strode to the railing, and let go. The dark bundle tumbled over the edge, vanishing into the shadows of the garden below.
I walked back inside, shut the door firmly behind me. Oliver was gaping at me, face turning tomato-red as he staggered to his feet.
*”Have you lost your mind?!”* he finally bellowed.
*”No,”* I said calmly, returning to my chopping board. *”Ive found it. I agreed to live with you, Oliver, not adopt your grown son. From now on, you both fend for yourselves. Cook, clean, do your laundry. My patience has run out. And tell Ethan his school uniforms on the lawn. Hed better fetch it before the foxes do.”*
The TVs engine noises fizzled into silence, replaced by Olivers sputtering rage. Ethans door creaked opendrawn by the shoutinghis usual bored gamer expression replaced by slack-jawed confusion. He looked between his fuming father and me, calmly slicing tomatoes for my salad.
*”Dad whats going on?”*
*”Whats going on?!”* Oliver jabbed a finger toward the balcony. *”Your clothes are fertilising the garden, thats what! She threw them out! Go get your things before the bloody neighbourhood cats nick them!”*
The humiliation on Ethans face was almost comical. The king of his virtual battlefield, publicly scolded and sent on a humiliating missionfishing his own dirty laundry off the lawn. He ducked his head, shoved on his trainers, and slunk out the door. Oliver stood there, chest heaving like a bull in a cage, waiting for me to explode, cry, *something*. But I just kept cooking. My icy calm infuriated him more than any shouting match could.
*”Youll regret this, Lily. Mark my words,”* he hissed before collapsing back onto the sofa, glowering at the blank telly.
From that night, the flat became a warzone. A quiet, seething one. Oliver and Ethanwhod returned with an armful of damp, grass-stained clotheschose passive resistance. They were convinced this was just a *mood*, a tantrum Id get over if they waited me out. Theyd prove they didnt *need* me, yet did everything to make the flat unlivable.
The kitchen fell first. That morning, I made my coffee, washed my cup, and left for work. They stumbled out to an empty fridge, no breakfast waiting. Their attempt at cooking left eggshells in the pan, milk boiled over the hob, and a tower of unwashed dishes in the sink. They left it all there. First shot fired.
When I got home, I took one glance at the mess, cooked myself a single portion of pasta, ate, washed *my* plate, and went to bed. Their filth didnt touch me.
Days passed. Pizza boxes piled up. Crisp packets littered the sofa. Sticky rings from fizzy drinks stained the coffee table. The air thickened with the sour stink of takeaways and stubbornness. They *waited* for me to crack, for some maternal instinct to kick in and make me scrub it all clean.
I didnt. I carved out my own spacehallway, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. I cleaned only what I used. Cooked only for myself. My bedroom was my fortress, spotless and serene amidst their manufactured chaos.
*”This place is a pigsty,”* Oliver muttered one evening as I passed.
*”Your half is,”* I said without turning. *”Mines fine.”*
His jaw clenched. My calm was driving him mad.
By the weeks end, they were losing. The kitchen table was a wasteland of crumbs and ketchup smears. The sink reeked of rotting food. I moved through it like a ghost, untouched. Their passive war was failing. So Oliver escalated.
I came home to find them sprawled on the sofa, some action film blaring. They watched me enter my roomthen freeze.
There, on my cream wool coatthe one Id bought with my bonuswas a greasy pizza stain, dark and deliberate. A splash of pickle brine soaked into the sleeve. Olivers handiwork. A petty, vicious *message*.
I didnt scream. Didnt react. I folded the coat, put it away, and walked out. They tensed, expecting fireworks. Instead, I poured myself water, picked up my phone, and dialled.
*”Hello. I need my locks changed. Today. The sooner the better.”*
The click of the front door behind me was louder than any slam.
An hour later, I returned with black bin bags. Waited till they left. Then emptied Ethans roomclothes, gaming junk, all of itinto sacks. Did the same with Olivers things. Forty minutes later, six bulging bags lined the hallway.
The locksmith arrived, drilled out the old lock. The screech of metal was the sound of freedom. When he handed me the new keys, I nearly laughed.
That evening, the banging started.
*”Lily! Open the damn door! Whats this about?!”*
I sipped my tea. Let them shout. Finally, I spoke, calm as ice:
*”Leave. Your things are on the landing. This isnt your home anymore.”*
Oliver roared. Threatened to break the door down.
*”Try it,”* I said. *”Thats called breaking and entering.”*
Muffled swearing. The rustle of bags. Thensilence. They were gone.
I aired out the flat. Scrubbed every trace of them away. By dawn, the place was *mine*.
A week later, Oliver showed up, unshaven, holding a bag of my stray belongings.
*”Lily, this has gone too far. We were wrong. Ethans got nowhere proper to staywere crammed at my mums. This isnt living.”*
I took the bag. *”For you, maybe. For me, its just begun.”*
*”Were *family*!”* he spat.
*”No. Familys something you *become*. You two were just dead weight. And Ive cut it loose. Dont come back.”*
The door shut. The new lock clicked.
I heard later hed rented a grotty bedsit. Sent Ethan back to his ex. Meanwhile, I signed up for pottery classes. Spent weekends reading, napping, *breathing*.
Funny, isnt it? How much lighter life feels when you stop carrying someone elses load.
**Lesson learned:** Never let yourself become someone elses appliance. A home should be sharednot serviced.
