«I’m not your cook or your maid, expected to clean up after your son as well! If you brought him to live with us, you can jolly well look after him yourself!»
Emily stood frozen, the knife hovering over the chopping board. The aroma of fried onions and garlic she’d been preparing for her own dinner seemed to vanish, replaced by the bitter sting of her rising anger. She turned slowly. On the armchair lay a crumpled heapjeans, T-shirts, socks stiffened into hard little balls, all carrying the unmistakable scent of teenage sweat and street dust.
She said nothing, staring at the back of Olivers head as he lounged on the sofa, absorbed in the roar of engines on the racing highlights. He hadnt even bothered to look at her while issuing orders, as though she were some automated appliance. In the next room, behind a closed door, sat the cause of it allsixteen-year-old Ethan, her «temporary» housemate for the past four months. The rapid clicks of his mouse and muffled swearing suggested another intense gaming session. It clearly hadnt crossed his mind to manage his own laundry or meals. Why would it? That was Emilys job.
«Im not your cook or your maid, expected to clean up after your son as well! If you brought him to live with us, you can jolly well look after him yourself!»
Her voice was firm, cutting through the screech of tyres from the television.
Oliver frowned and finally turned, his face a picture of genuine bewilderment, as if shed suddenly switched to speaking Mandarin.
«Whats got into you? Its not exactly hard, is it? Youre doing the washing anywaywhat difference does a few extra shirts make? And you cook for us all. Why make a fuss over nothing?»
The simplicity of his words struck her like a slap. To him, it *was* nothing. She was an appliancea washing machine to be loaded, a fridge to be restocked. He didnt see her exhaustion after work, the hours she spent at the stove while they lounged. He just consumed her time and energy without a second thought.
Without another word, she strode to the armchair, pinched the heap of laundry between two fingers, and marched not to the washing machine but to the balcony.
«Where dyou think youre going?» Oliver called, sitting up.
Emily flung open the balcony door. The chill November air hit her face as she stepped out, leaned over the railing, and let go. The dark bundle tumbled silently onto the lawn below.
She returned inside, shutting the door firmly. Oliver gaped at her, first in shock, then in outrage.
«Have you lost your mind?!» he roared.
«No,» she replied calmly, returning to her frying pan. «Ive found it. I agreed to live with *you*, not adopt your grown child. From now on, you both fend for yourselves. Cook, clean, do your laundry. My goodwill has run out. And tell your son his school uniforms on the lawn. Hed better fetch it before the binmen do.»
The roar of engines from the TV was drowned out by Olivers furious spluttering. Ethan emerged from his room, drawn by the shouting, his usual gaming-induced boredom replaced by confusion. His eyes darted between his crimson-faced father and Emily, who was now methodically chopping vegetables for her salad.
«Dad, whats going on?» he mumbled.
«Whats going on?» Oliver jabbed a finger toward the balcony. «Your clothes are fertilising the lawn! She threw them out! Go fetch your things before the neighbours dogs make off with them!»
The humiliation on Ethans face was palpable. The king of his virtual realm had been publicly humiliated, sent on a mortifying mission to retrieve his own dirty laundry from the front garden. Without daring to glance at Emily, he slipped out, trainers half-on, and disappeared downstairs. Oliver stood fuming, waitingfor a scream, an apology, anything. But she just kept cooking. Her icy calm infuriated him more than any row.
«Youll regret this, Emily. Deeply,» he growled, before slumping back onto the sofa, glowering at the blank TV screen.
From that night, the flat became a battlegroundquiet but brutal. Oliver and Ethan, returning with an armful of damp, grass-stained clothes, opted for passive resistance. They were sure this was just a tantrum, that shed crack if they held out. Theyd prove they didnt need her, yet did everything to make life unbearable.
The kitchen fell first. When Emily left for work the next morning, she made coffee, ate her yogurt, washed her cup, and left. Oliver and Ethan, confronted with an empty fridge and no breakfast, attempted cooking. The resulta milk-splattered hob, a pan of charcoal that had once been eggs, and a mountain of filthy disheswas left untouched. Their opening salvo.
That evening, Emily eyed the mess, prepared a single portion of dinner, ate, washed her plate, and retreated to the bedroom. The pile in the sink might as well have been invisible.
Days passed. Pizza boxes piled up, crisp packets littered the sofa, sticky rings from glasses marked the coffee table. The air thickened with the sour tang of neglected takeaways and stubborn silence. They ignored the bin, piling rubbish in a reeking mound beside it, waiting for her to snap.
But Emily didnt. She carved out an invisible boundaryhallway, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. She cleaned only her path, wiped only her side of the mirror, cooked just for herself. Her bedroom became a sanctuary, a tidy island in their sea of chaos.
«Its foul in here,» Oliver snapped one evening as she passed.
«In *your* half, perhaps,» she replied without turning. «*Mine* suits me just fine.»
His jaw clenched. Her calm was maddening. They were losing their cold war, but pride wouldnt let them admit it.
A week in, the flat reeked of defeat. The kitchen table was sticky with spilled cola, the sink festered. Emily navigated it all like a museum curator observing an exhibit on slovenly living. Her silence, her single clean plate, her indifferenceit was louder than any argument.
On the seventh day, Oliver cracked. Her icy resolve had outlasted their rebellion. They sat amidst their own filth, deflated.
«She cant just carry on like this,» Ethan muttered, nodding at her closed door. «The kitchens rank. Ive got no clean clothes left.»
«I know,» Oliver said darkly. An idea struck himif shed made a fortress of cleanliness, hed breach it. He marched to her room.
Inside, everything was pristinethe bed neatly made, not a speck of dust. Her new cream coat, bought with her bonus, hung on the chair. A symbol of her independence. Perfect.
He returned with a pizza box, shaking crumbs and greasy napkins onto it. Then he grabbed a jar of pickles and splashed brine across the sleeve. The stain spread, ugly and deliberate. Ethan watched, silent.
When Emily returned, they were loudly watching an action film, feigning indifference. She walked to her roomand stopped. The ruined coat screamed malice. She touched the damp fabric, and something in her went cold and clear.
She didnt shout. She folded the coat, tucked it away, then picked up her phone.
«Hello? I need my locks changed. Today. The sooner the better.»
The click of the front door was their wake-up call. Oliver and Ethan exchanged glances.
«Wheres she gone?» Ethan asked nervously.
«Who knows,» Oliver muttered, though uncertainty crept into his voice. «Shell be back.»
But she wasnt. Instead, she bought black bin bags, waited for them to leave, then returned. Like a surgeon, she excised them from her homeEthans clothes, Olivers work gear, their clutter. Forty minutes later, six bulging bags lined the hallway.
The locksmith arrived, drilled out the old lock, and handed her new keys.
«All done, love.»
She dragged the bags to the landing, then stood in her clean, empty flat, breathing freely for the first time in months.
That evening, the jangle of Olivers key failing in the lock was music. His pounding, then Ethans, grew frantic.
«Emily! Open up! Whats this about?»
She sipped her tea, then approached the door.
«Leave. Your things are on the landing. This isnt your home anymore.»
«Youre mental! I live here! Open this door or Ill break it down!»
«Try it,» she said evenly. «Thats breaking and entering.»
Their curses faded as they rifled through the bags. Eventually, their footsteps retreated down the stairs, dragging their lives behind them.
She opened every window, letting the crisp air purge their lingering stench. She scrubbed, polished, reclaimed her space. By dawn, the flat gleamed. She drank coffee by the window, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city wake. Not lonely*light*.
A week later, Oliver turned up, dishevelled, holding a bag of her stray belongings.
«Emily, lets talk. This has gone too far.»
She took the bag.
«Listen, we were wrong. I was wrong. Ethans got nowhere to gowere crammed at my mums. This isnt living.»
«For you, no,» she said. «For me, its just beginning.»
«But were family!»
«No, Oliver. Family isnt *given*. Its *made*. You were a burden. And Ive set myself free.»
She closed the door. He didnt return.
Later, she heard hed rented a dingy room on the outskirts, sent Ethan back to his estranged mother. Theyd had to learn to fend for themselves.
Emily, meanwhile, learned to be happy. She signed up for pottery classes, spent weekends as she pleasedsometimes with friends, sometimes in blissful solitude, in her spotless, peaceful flat.
Some lessons are hard-earned: kindness should never be mistaken for weakness, and a home is only yours when you refuse to let others treat itor youas an afterthought.
