**Diary Entry October 12th**
Im not your maid or your personal chef, expected to cook and clean up after your son. If youve brought him to live with us, then *you* can take care of him.
«Charlotte, Ethan needs dinner sorted for tomorrow. He wont eat meatballsmake him those pork chops like last time, and fry some potatoes.» Oliver didnt even glance up from the telly, where racing cars screeched across the screen. «Oh, and grab his laundry while youre at it. Hes got nothing clean for school tomorrow.»
The knife in Charlottes hand hovered over the chopping board. The smell of fried onions and garlicher own dinnervanished under the sharp sting of irritation rising in her throat. She turned slowly. In the armchair, a crumpled heap of jeans, T-shirts, and stiffened socks reeked of teenage sweat and pavement dust.
She said nothing. Just stared at the back of Olivers head, at how he lounged on the sofa, absorbed in the roar of engines. He hadnt even looked at her while giving orders. As if she were a voice assistant or an appliance expected to obey. Through the closed door of the next room, sixteen-year-old Ethanher «temporary» flatmate for four months nowclicked and cursed at some computer game. The thought of washing his own clothes or making his own food never crossed his mind. Why would it? Thats what Charlotte was for.
«I am *not* your maid or your personal chef,» she said, her voice icy, cutting through the engine noise. «If youve brought him here, *you* look after him.»
Oliver frowned, finally turning. His expression was pure bafflement, as if shed spoken another language.
«What are you on about? Its not hard. Youre already doing laundrywhats two more shirts? And you cook for everyone. Why make a fuss over nothing?»
The simplicity of his words hit her like a slap. To him, there was no difference. She was a functionlike the fridge or the washing machine. Fill it with dirty clothes, press start. Empty shelves? Go to the shop. He didnt see her exhaustion after work, didnt notice her hours at the stove while they lounged. He just *consumed* her time, her energy.
Without another word, she strode to the armchair, pinched the heap of laundry between two fingers, and walkednot to the bathroom, but to the balcony.
«Where are you going with that?» Oliver sat up, wary.
She didnt answer. The November air bit her face as she stepped outside. One sharp movement, and the dark bundle tumbled over the railing, vanishing onto the lawn below.
Back inside, Oliver gaped at her, face purpling. «Have you lost your mind?!»
«No,» she said calmly, returning to her chopping. «Ive found it. I agreed to live with *you*, not adopt your grown child. From now on, you fend for yourselves. And tell Ethan his school uniforms on the lawn. Better hurry before the binmen take it.»
The engine sounds from the telly died. Ethan poked his head out, confused. His usual bored gamer expression was gone, replaced by shock as he looked between his fuming father and Charlotte, methodically slicing vegetables.
«Dad whats going on?»
«Whats going on?» Oliver jabbed a finger at the balcony. «Your clothes are fertilising the lawn! Go fetch them before the neighbours dog does!»
Ethans humiliation was almost tangible. The king of his virtual world, publicly scolded and sent on a shameful missionto collect his own dirty laundry in front of the whole block. He scurried out without meeting Charlottes eyes.
Oliver stood there, breathing hard, waitingfor shouting, tears, maybe an apology. But she just kept cooking. Her calm was infuriating.
«Youll regret this, Charlotte. Deeply.»
From that night, the flat became a silent battleground. Oliver and Ethan, hauling back their damp, crumpled clothes, chose passive resistance. Theyd prove they didnt need herby making life unbearable.
The kitchen fell first. Charlotte woke, made coffee, washed her cup, and left for work. They faced an empty fridge, no breakfast. Their attempt at cooking left the stove swimming in milk, a pan of charred eggs, and a mountain of dishes. They left it all theretheir first shot across the bow.
She came home, ignored the mess, ate her own dinner, and went to bed. Day after day, the chaos grew: pizza boxes, crisp packets, sticky rings on the coffee table. The air thickened with the stink of takeaway and stubbornness. They piled rubbish *next* to the bin, waiting for her to crack.
She didnt.
She moved like a ghosthallway, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. She cleaned only her path, cooked only for herself. Her room was her fortress, pristine in the squalor they created.
«Its unbreathable in here,» Oliver snapped one evening.
«*Your* half is,» she replied, walking past.
On the seventh day, Oliver struck back. Her calm was maddening. If she had her clean island, hed ruin it. He marched into her roomspotless, her new cream coat hanging neatly on the chair. A symbol of her independence.
He grabbed a pizza box, shook crumbs and greasy napkins onto it. Then the pickle jarvinegar splashed across the sleeve, the stain spreading. Ethan watched, silent.
When Charlotte returned, they were loudly watching a film, pretending nothing happened. She walked into her roomand froze. The ruin of her coat screamed malice. She touched the damp fabric. Something inside her went cold, clear.
She didnt scream. She folded the coat, put it away, and picked up her phone.
«Hello? I need my locks changed. Today.»
When the door clicked shut behind her, the silence was deafening. She didnt go to a friends. She bought black bin bags, sat on a bench outside, and waited for them to leave.
Then she emptied their lives into those bagsEthans clothes, Olivers work boots, their clutter. Six bags lined the hallway when the locksmith arrived. The drills whine was the sound of freedom.
That evening, the key scraped uselessly in the lock. Banging. «Charlotte! Open up!»
She sipped tea.
«All your things are on the landing,» she said calmly. «This isnt your home anymore.»
Shouting. Threats. Thensilence. They dragged their bags away, probably to his mums.
She opened every window. Lit a pine-scented candle. Scrubbed the flat until it gleamed, washing away the past.
A week later, Oliver knocked. «Lets talk. This has gone too far.»
She took the bag of her things hed accidentally taken.
«We were wrong,» he said. «Ethans got nowhere proper to livewere crammed at Mums»
«For you, thats no life,» she said. «For me, its just begun.»
«But were *family*!»
«No. Familys something you *become*. You were a burden. Dont come back.»
The door clicked shut. She heard his heavy footsteps fade.
Later, she heard hed rented a dingy room on the outskirts. Ethan went back to his mums.
And Charlotte? She signed up for pottery classes. Spent weekends with friends, or doing nothing at allin her spotless, *quiet* flat.
