«I’m not your cook or your maid to clean up after your son as well! If you’ve brought him to live with us, be a good man and take care of him yourself!»
«Emily, Ewan needs something for tomorrow. He won’t eat the meatballsmake him those pork chops like last time, and fry up some potatoes. Oh, and» Oliver, eyes glued to the Formula 1 race flickering on the telly, nodded lazily toward the armchair. «Grab his laundry while you’re at it. Hes got nothing to wear for school tomorrow.»
Emily froze, the knife hovering over the chopping board. The scent of fried onion and garlic shed been cooking for her own dinner vanished, replaced by the bitter taste of irritation rising in her throat. Slowly, she turned. Piled on the armchair was a crumpled heapjeans, T-shirts, socks twisted into stiff little ballsall carrying the faint but unmistakable stench of teenage sweat and street grime.
She said nothing. She stared at the back of Olivers head, at how he lounged on the sofa, utterly absorbed in the roar of engines. He hadnt even bothered to look at her while giving orderslike he was talking to a voice assistant or a piece of furniture programmed to obey. In the next room, behind a closed door, sat the cause of all thissixteen-year-old Ewan, her «temporary» housemate for the past four months. From the rapid clicks of a mouse and bursts of muffled swearing, he was deep in some online battle. It wouldnt cross his mind to sort his own clothes or food. Why would it? Thats what Emily was for.
«Im not your cook or your maid to clean up after your son! If youve brought him to live with us, be a good man and take care of him yourself!»
Her voice didnt waver. It cut through the screech of tyres on the telly, sharp and cold.
Oliver frowned and finally turned his head, genuine bewilderment on his face, as if shed spoken in another language.
«Whats got into you? Is it really that hard? Youre doing the washing anywaywhats the difference between two shirts or four? And you cook for all of us. Why the drama over nothing?»
He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that a bright, furious clarity pierced through Emily. To him, there was no difference. To him, she was a functionpart of the household machinery, like the fridge or the washing machine. Dirty clothes went in, clean ones came out. Empty shelves meant a trip to Tesco. He didnt see her exhaustion after work, didnt notice her hours at the stove while they lounged. He just consumed her time and energy.
Without another word, she strode to the armchair, pinched the heap of laundry between two fingers, and marchednot toward the washing machine, but to the balcony.
«Where the hell are you going?» Oliver asked, sitting up.
Emily flung open the balcony door. The icy November air slapped her face. She stepped out, gripped the railing, and without hesitation, let go. The dark bundle tumbled over the edge, vanishing silently onto the lawn below.
She walked back inside and shut the door firmly. Oliver gaped at her, his face shifting from shock to fury.
«Have you lost your mind?!» he roared when he 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 child. From now on, you both take care of yourselves. Laundry, cooking, cleaningmy kindness has run out. And tell your son his school uniforms on the lawn. Hed better hurry before the groundskeepers nick it.»
The roar of engines from the telly was drowned out by Olivers furious sputtering. Ewan, drawn by the shouting, peered out from his roomhis usual bored or gaming-frenzied expression now slack with confusion. He looked between his red-faced father and Emily, who was calmly chopping vegetables for her salad.
«Dad, whats going on?»
«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 foxes nick them!»
The humiliation on the boys face was almost tangible. King of his virtual world, now publicly scolded and sent on a humiliating errandto fish his dirty laundry off the grass below their flat. Without daring to glance at Emily, he slunk out, yanked on his trainers, and vanished. Oliver stood there, heaving like a cornered bull, waitingfor shouting, tears, maybe even an apology. But she just kept cooking. Her icy calm infuriated him more than any argument.
«Youll regret this, Emily. Deeply,» he spat before collapsing back onto the sofa, glaring at the blank telly.
From that night, the flat became a battlefieldsilent but vicious. Oliver and Ewan, returning with armfuls of damp, grass-stained clothes, chose passive resistance. They were sure this was just a mood, a tantrum that would pass if they held firm. Theyd prove they could manage without herwhile making «managing» unbearable.
The kitchen fell first. That morning, Emily made her coffee, ate her yoghurt, washed her cup, and left for work. Oliver and Ewan, finding no breakfast and an empty fridge, tried cooking. The result: milk spilled on the hob, a pan of charred scrambled eggs welded to the surface, and a mountain of dirty dishes. They left it all. First shot fired.
That evening, Emily surveyed the mess, silently cooked herself a light dinner, ate, washed her plate, and went to bed. Their filth didnt seem to touch her.
Days passed. The mess grewpizza boxes on the floor, crisp packets on the sofa, sticky rings on the coffee table. The air thickened with the sour tang of takeaway and stubbornness. They ignored the bin, piling rubbish in a bag beside it, waiting for her to crackfor her «womanly need» for order to make her cave.
She didnt. She built an invisible wall. Her routine: hallway, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom. She cleaned only her path, cooked only for herself. Her room was her fortress, a tidy island in their sea of chaos.
«Its unbearable in here,» Oliver snapped one evening as she passed.
«In your half, maybe,» she said without turning. «Mine suits me fine.»
He clenched his jaw. Her calm was maddening. They were losing this cold war, but pride wouldnt let them admit it.
A week in, Oliver snapped. Her icy indifference was stronger than their rebellion. That evening, he stormed into her pristine roomher sanctuary of fresh linen and spotless surfaces. Her new cream coat, bought with her bonus, hung on the chair. A symbol of her independence. The perfect target.
He grabbed the greasy pizza box, dumped crumbs and stained napkins onto it, then splashed pickle brine from the jar. The dark stain spread like a wound. Ewan watched, blank-faced.
When Emily came home, they sat loudly watching an action film. She walked to her roomand stopped. The ruined coat screamed malice. She touched the sticky fabric, and something inside her died. No anger, no hurt. Just cold certainty.
She didnt shout. She folded the coat, put it away, then called a locksmith.
«I need my front door locks changed. Today.»
The click of the door behind her was a gunshot. Silence followed, thick with threat.
«Wheres she gone?» Ewan asked nervously.
«Who knows?» Oliver muttered, though unease crept into his voice. «Shell be back.»
She wasnt.
Instead, she bought black trash bags, waited on a bench until they left, then returnedone last time.
Like a machine, she emptied Ewans roomclothes, headphones, mugs, all into bags. Olivers things followed. Forty minutes later, six bulging bags lined the hallway.
The locksmith camea burly bloke with tools. Drills screeched, metal groaned. Music to her ears. Half an hour later, he handed her shiny new keys.
«All yours, love.»
She paid, shut the door on its new lock, then hauled the bags to the landing. Her flat. Her air, free of them.
That evening, keys jangled uselessly in the lock.
«Emily! Open up! Whats this?»
She sipped tea in silence.
«Emily!» Fists pounded.
She set down her cup, walked to the door, and said calmly, «Leave. Your things are on the landing. This isnt your home anymore.»
Oliver roared. «Youre mental! I live here! Open this door or Ill break it down!»
«Try it,» she said. «Thats breaking and entering.»
Muffled swearing. Rustling bags. Threats faded as they lugged their lives away.
She turned up the music, cooked a proper meal, and breathed.
A week later, Oliver turned uprumpled, tired, holding a bag of her things.
«Emily, lets talk. This has gone too far.»
She took the bag.
«Listen, we were wrong. I was wrong. Ewans got nowhere proper to livewere crammed at my mums. This isnt a life.»
«For you, no,» she said. «For me, its just begun.»
«But were family!»
«No, Oliver. Familys something you become. You were a burden. And Im free of it. Dont come back.»
The door clicked shut. His footsteps faded.
She never heard from him again.
Life settledwork, pottery classes, weekends with friends or blissfully alone in her spotless flat.
She learned something new: how to be happy.
