In the dim glow of the flickering telly, where racing cars roared across the screen, Oliver barely glanced up from the sofa. «Molly, Ethan needs dinner sorted for tomorrow. No burgersdo him those pork chops like last time, and fry up some potatoes. Oh, and» He nodded toward the armchair without a second thought. «Grab his laundry while youre at it. Cant have him turning up to school in muck.»
Molly froze, the knife hovering over the chopping board. The scent of fried onions and garlic shed been cooking for her own supper seemed to vanish, replaced by the acrid sting of rising fury. Slowly, she turned. Piled in the armchair was a crumpled mess of jeans, T-shirts, and socks stiff with dried sweatall reeking of teenage neglect.
She said nothing. Just stared at the back of Oliver’s head, at the way he lounged, utterly absorbed in the telly, as though she were no more than a servant to be commanded. Behind a closed door down the hall, sixteen-year-old Ethanher «temporary» housemate for the past four monthsclicked and cursed at some computer game, oblivious to the idea of washing his own clothes or fixing his own meals. Why would he? That was Mollys job.
«Im not your maid or your housekeeper, Oliver. If youve brought your son to live here, you can bloody well look after him yourself.»
Her voice cut through the engine noise, cold and steady.
Oliver frowned, finally turning. His face twisted in genuine confusion, as if shed spoken in tongues. «Whats got into you? Its a few shirts and a plate of food. Youre doing the washing anywaywhats the difference between two shirts or four? And you cook for us all. Why make a fuss over nothing?»
The simplicity of itthe sheer, mundane expectationpierced her like a blade. To him, she wasnt a person. She was an appliance. Fill it with filth, press a button, out comes cleanliness. He didnt see her exhaustion after work, the hours she spent cooking while they lazed about. He just consumed her time, her effort, without thought.
Without another word, she marched to the armchair, pinched the reeking pile between two fingers, and strodenot toward the washing machine, but the balcony.
«Where the hell are you going?» Oliver sat up sharply.
Molly wrenched open the balcony door. The crisp November air slapped her face. She stepped out, leaned over the railing, and let go. The clothes tumbled silently into the darkness below, landing on the front lawn.
She shut the door behind her. Oliver gaped, his face shifting from shock to purple rage. «Have you lost your damn mind?» he roared when he found his voice.
«No,» she said flatly, returning to her pan. «Ive found it. I agreed to live with you, not raise your grown son. From now on, you both fend for yourselves. Cook, clean, do your laundry. My patience has run out.» She flicked the stove knob. «Oh, and tell Ethan his school uniforms on the lawn. Best fetch it before the binmen do.»
The TVs engine roars choked into silence, replaced by Olivers sputtering fury. Ethan, drawn by the shouting, peered out from his roomhis face, usually slack with gaming focus, now slack with shock.
«Dad, whats going on?» he mumbled.
«Whats going on?» Oliver jabbed a finger toward the balcony. «Your clothes are fertilising the bloody garden! She threw them out! Go fish em up before the dogs tear em to bits!»
The humiliation on Ethans face was almost tangible. The king of his virtual realm, publicly scolded and sent on a humiliating errandto scavenge his own dirty laundry under the blocks windows. He slunk out without daring to look at Molly.
Oliver stood heaving in the middle of the room, waitingfor her to shout, to cave, to apologise. But she just kept cooking. Her icy calm infuriated him more than any row.
«Youll regret this, Molly,» he hissed, then collapsed back onto the sofa, glowering at the blank screen.
From that night, the flat became a battlefield. Silent, seething. Oliver and Ethanwhod returned with an armful of damp, crumpled clotheschose passive resistance. They were sure this was a tantrum, a womans whim that would pass if they held firm. Theyd prove they didnt need herby making life unbearable.
First, the kitchen fell. Molly woke, made her coffee, washed her cup, and left for work. Oliver and Ethan, greeted by an empty fridge and no breakfast, botched their own mealscorched pans, spilled milk, a mountain of unwashed dishes left in the sink. Their opening shot.
That evening, Molly stepped over the mess, cooked a single portion, ate, washed her plate, and retreated to her room. Their filth didnt touch her.
Days passed. Pizza boxes piled up, crisp packets littered the sofa, sticky rings stained the coffee table. The air thickened with the stench of takeaway and stubbornness. They ignored the bin, heaping rubbish in a stinking mound beside it, waiting for her to break.
She didnt. She carved a clean path through the chaoshall, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. She wiped only her side of the sink, cooked only for herself. Her bedroom was her fortress, a spotless island in their squalor.
«Its foul in here,» Oliver snapped one evening as she passed.
«In your half, maybe,» she said without turning. «Mine suits me fine.»
His jaw clenched. Her calm unnerved him. They were losing this cold war, but pride kept them digging in.
Then, the escalation. On the seventh day, Oliver stalked into her pristine bedrooma deliberate invasion. Her new cream coat, bought with her bonus, hung on the chair. A symbol of her independence. His target.
He returned with pizza crusts, crumbs, then a jar of pickle juice, splashing it over the fabric. The stain spread, ugly and deliberate. Ethan watched, blank-faced.
When Molly came home, she found it. No rage, no tearsjust a hollow certainty. She folded the ruined coat, placed it in the wardrobe, then picked up the phone.
«Hello. I need my locks changed. Today.»
When the front door clicked shut behind her, Oliver and Ethan flinched. Silence swallowed the flat. They waited, unease curdling to dread.
She didnt return. Instead, she bought black bin bags, waited for them to leave, then emptied their roomsclothes, gadgets, every trace of theminto six bulging sacks. A locksmith came, drilled out the old lock, handed her shiny new keys.
By dusk, their belongings sat on the landing. When Olivers key jammed in the new lock, his pounding shook the door.
«Molly! Open up! What the hell is this?»
Her voice, calm through the wood: «Leave. Your things are outside. This isnt your home anymore.»
His roar was half rage, half panic. «Its my flat too! Ill break the damn door down!»
«Try it,» she said. «Thats breaking and entering.»
Their shouts faded as they hauled the bags awayto his mothers cramped flat, to some dingy rented room. Molly exhaled. The air was stale, but free.
She flung open every window, lit a pine-scented candle, scrubbed the flat cleannot of dirt, but of memory. By dawn, the place gleamed. She sipped coffee by the window, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city wake. Not lonely. Light.
A week later, Oliver turned up, rumpled and weary, holding a bag of her stray toiletries. «Molly, lets talk. This has gone too far.»
She took the bag.
«Listen, we were wrong. I was wrong.» His eyes held the old certainty that a half-arsed apology fixed everything. «Ethans got nowhere proper to live. Were crammed at Mums»
«For you, thats no life,» she said. «For me, its just begun.»
«But were family!» he spat.
«No, Oliver. Familys something you become. You were a burden. And Ive put you down.» The door clicked shut.
Later, she heard hed rented a room on the outskirts, sent Ethan back to his estranged mother. They learned to wash their own socks, cook their own meals.
Molly, meanwhile, learned happiness. She signed up for pottery classes, spent weekends as she pleasedsometimes with friends, sometimes doing nothing at all in her spotless, silent flat.
