«I’m not your bloody maid or housekeeper to wait on your son hand and foot! If you’ve moved him in with us, you can bloody well look after him yourself!»
«Emily, Joshua needs dinner sorted for tomorrow. He won’t eat those frozen burgersmake him those pork chops like last time, and fry up some potatoes.» Oliver barely glanced up from the telly, where Formula One cars screamed across the screen. He jerked his chin toward the armchair. «Grab his laundry while you’re at it. Hes got nothing clean for school tomorrow.»
Emily froze, the knife hovering over the chopping board. The garlic and onion shed been frying for her own dinner suddenly smelled faint, replaced by the sour sting of rising anger. She turned slowly. The armchair was buried under a mound of crumpled jeans, T-shirts, and stiff socks reeking of teenage sweat and pavement dust.
She said nothing. Just stared at the back of Olivers head as he lounged on the sofa, absorbed in the roar of engines. He hadnt even bothered to look at her when giving orderslike she was some appliance expected to function on command. Behind the closed door of the spare room, sixteen-year-old Joshua, her «temporary» housemate for the past four months, was deep in some online battle, keyboard clattering between bursts of frustrated swearing. The thought of washing his own clothes or cooking his own meals clearly hadnt crossed his mind. Why would it? That was Emilys job.
«I’m not your bloody maid or housekeeper to wait on your son hand and foot! If you’ve moved him in with us, 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 bloody Mandarin.
«Whats got into you? Its not exactly hard, is it? Youre doing the washing anywaywhats two more shirts? And you cook for all of us. Why make a fuss over nothing?»
He said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Something sharp and furious twisted in Emilys chest. To him, there *was* no difference. She was just another household functionlike the fridge or the boiler. Clothes pile up, you wash them. Shelves empty, you fill them. He didnt see the hours she spent cooking while they lounged, or the exhaustion after her shifts. He just took.
Without another word, she strode to the armchair, pinched the reeking pile of laundry between two fingers, and marchednot to the washing machine, but to the balcony.
«Oi, where are you going with that?» Oliver sat up, wary.
Emily yanked the balcony door open. The biting November air hit her face. She stepped out, leaned over the railing, and let go. The dark bundle tumbled silently onto the lawn below.
She walked back inside and shut the door. Oliver gaped at her, face cycling from shock to beet-red fury.
«Have you lost your sodding mind?!» he roared when he finally found his voice.
«No,» Emily said calmly, returning to her frying pan. «Ive found it. I agreed to live with *you*, 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 Joshua his school uniforms on the lawn. Better fetch it before the foxes do.»
The TVs engine noise faded under Olivers furious spluttering. Joshua emerged from his room, drawn by the shoutinghis usual bored gamer expression replaced by utter bewilderment. He stared between his fuming father and Emily, who was now methodically slicing peppers for her salad.
«Dad, whats going on?» he mumbled.
«Whats going on?!» Oliver jabbed a finger toward the balcony. «Your clothes are fertilising the bloody garden! She chucked them out! Go fetch your crap before the neighbours dogs tear it apart!»
The humiliation on Joshuas face was almost physical. King of his virtual world, now publicly scolded and sent on the degrading mission of retrieving his own dirty laundry from the communal lawn. He slunk past Emily without meeting her eyes, shoved on his trainers, and fled.
Oliver stood in the middle of the room, breathing like a cornered bull, waitingfor shouting, tears, maybe even an apology. But Emily just kept cooking. Her icy calm infuriated him more than any screaming match.
«Youll regret this, Emily. Mark my words,» he hissed before collapsing back onto the sofa, glowering at the blank telly.
That evening, the flat became a silent battleground. Oliver and Joshua, returning with an armful of damp, grass-stained clothes, chose passive resistance. They were sure this was just a moodthat shed crack if they pushed back hard enough. Theyd prove they didnt *need* her, even as they made the place unlivable.
The kitchen fell first. The next morning, Emily made coffee, washed her single cup, and left for work. Oliver and Joshua, confronted with an empty fridge and no ready breakfast, attempted cooking. The result: a milk-splattered stove, a pan of charcoal that had once been eggs, and a mountain of unwashed dishes. They left it all. First shot fired.
That evening, Emily stepped around the mess, cooked herself a small meal, ate, washed *her* plate, and went to bed. Their filth didnt touch her.
Days passed. The chaos grew. Pizza boxes piled up, crisp bags littered the sofa, sticky rings stained the coffee table. The air turned thick with the greasy stink of takeaways and stubbornness. They *ignored* the bin, piling rubbish in a bag beside itwaiting for her to snap, for her «womanly instincts» to kick in.
She didnt. She built an invisible wall. Her path was simple: hallway, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. She cleaned only her own spaces, cooked single portions, ate alone. Her room became a fortressa clean, quiet island in their sea of deliberate filth.
«Place smells like a student flat,» Oliver grumbled one night as she passed.
«*Your* half does,» she said without turning. «Mines fine.»
His jaw clenched. Her calm was maddening. They were losing this cold war, but pride wouldnt let them admit it.
By weeks end, the flat was a wasteland. Defeated, Oliver and Joshua sat amidst their own mess, hungry and irritable. Passive resistance had failed. Time for active sabotage.
Oliver stood abruptly. «Right. If she wants to play queen in her clean room, well remind her its *our* house too.» He marched to her bedroom.
«Dad?» Joshua hesitated.
«Showing her what real dirt looks like.»
Her room was immaculatebed made, surfaces gleaming. Hanging on the chair was her new cream coat, bought last month with her bonus. A symbol of independence. Perfect target.
Oliver grabbed a leftover pizza box, dumped crumbs and greasy napkins onto it, then splashed pickle juice from a jar. The stain spread like poison. Joshua watched, silent.
When Emily returned, they were loudly watching some action film, ignoring her. She walked to her roomand froze. The ruined coat screamed malice. She touched the damp fabric, and something inside her snapped. Not anger. Just cold clarity.
She folded the coat, put it away, and walked out. They tensed, waiting for explosion. Instead, she poured water, put on her jacket, and dialled a number.
«Hello? I need my locks changed. Today. The sooner the better.»
The front door clicked shut. Silence. Oliver and Joshua exchanged glances.
«Shes bluffing,» Oliver muttered, but uncertainty crept in.
She wasnt.
Emily bought black bin bags, waited on a bench until they left, then returned. One last time.
Like a machine, she emptied Joshuas roomclothes, headphones, mugs, all into bags. Olivers work shirts, shoes, razor followed. Forty minutes later, six bulging sacks stood by the door.
The locksmith arriveda burly bloke with a toolbox. Drills screeched, metal clanked. Music to her ears. Half an hour later, he handed her shiny new keys.
«All yours, love.»
She hauled the sacks to the landing, shut the door, and breathed. The air still stank, but it was *hers*.
That evening, Olivers key scraped uselessly in the lock. Then came pounding.
«Emily! Open up! Whats this about?»
She sipped tea in the silent lounge.
«Emily! I swear to God!»
Finally, she approached the door. «Leave. Your things are on the landing. This isnt your home anymore.»
A beat. Then Oliver exploded. «You mental cow! I live here! Open this door or Ill break it down!»
«Try it,» she said calmly. «Thats breaking and entering.»
Muffled swearing. Rustling bags. More threats, fading as they lugged their belongings downstairsto his mums cramped flat, probably, or some dingy bedsit.
Emily turned up the radio and cooked a proper meal in her clean, quiet flat.
By morning, the place sparkled. Windows open, pine-scented candle burning, she drank coffee on the sill, watching the city wake. Not lonely. *Free.*
A week later, life settled. Work, books, shows she actually likedno piles of dishes, no demands.
Then, a knock. Oliver, rumpled and tired, held a bag of her stray toiletries.
«Em, lets talk. This is mad. Were at Mums, Josh has nowhere proper»
She took the bag.
«Listen, I was wrong. Lets forget this. Were *family*.»
«No,» she said softly. «Family doesnt happen by accident. You were a burden. Now youre not. Dont come back.»
The door clicked shut. She heard him linger, then leave.
Later, she heard hed rented a grim room on the outskirts, sent Joshua back to his mum. Tough luck.
Emily signed up for pottery classes. Weekends were herspub with friends, or blissful nothingness in her spotless flat.
Learning, at last, to be happy.
