My daughter-in-law, Emily, took up a mop and cloth, finding work with a cleaning company in our little town of Wellingborough. Now she polishes other people’s homes to a shine, while her own has become a dreadful mess. Filth, chaos, a lingering stench—and all this with a small child! She claims she’s exhausted from scrubbing floors at work and won’t bother at home. But how can anyone live in such squalor without shame, especially when her son crawls on sticky floors?
After her maternity leave, Emily refused any job for a year. No schedule suited her, no wage was enough. She turned up her nose at every offer, yet the positions she dreamed of rejected her. My son, William, slaved at two jobs, shouldering the mortgage, debts, and the household, while she sat at home, demanding he provide for her whims as the “proper breadwinner.”
“Just take any work for now—you can find something better later,” I urged, watching my son wear himself to the bone.
“I won’t settle for scraps! When I find something worthy, I’ll work. Until then, let William grind away,” she snapped, without a hint of shame.
I could do nothing to help—I could barely manage myself, caring for my husband after his stroke. Every penny went to medicine and bills. Meanwhile, Emily lived comfortably, untouched by the debts piling up around her. I bit my tongue, but inside, I seethed at the injustice.
At last, after a year, she condescended to join a cleaning service. The pay was decent, the hours flexible—she stopped complaining and began contributing. I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping their troubles would ease. But no such luck.
When I visited to mind my grandson, my heart sank in horror. Once, Emily had kept a spotless home—everything gleaming, everything in place. Now? The flat resembled a derelict shed. Piles of laundry—clean or dirty, who could say—towered in the corner. The floors clung to my shoes like treacle. The bathroom reeked as if untouched for years, the fixtures streaked with grime, while in the kitchen, dishes in the sink grew mould. I scrubbed the plates in a desperate attempt to salvage some order, but inside, fury trembled through me.
When Emily returned from work, I couldn’t hold back:
“Have you forgotten how to clean altogether? This is a disgrace! If anyone saw this, you’d die of shame!”
“Haven’t bothered in a month,” she sighed. “I’m worn out from mopping at work—I’ve no strength left here. William won’t lift a finger, so this is how we live.”
I was stunned. William comes home near midnight, dead on his feet, and she expects him to scrub floors? She has flexible hours, the boy’s in nursery—plenty of time! Yet cleaning, it seems, is beneath her. What does she do all day? Scroll her phone or nap?
“You’re serious?” I snapped. “I clean strangers’ houses for wages—at home, I want rest! I earn as much as your precious William now, so let him handle the chores!”
“When would he? At midnight? He gets one day off a week!” I shot back, defending my son.
“Then he can clean on his day off,” she retorted.
I left with a heavy heart. I’d promised William I’d stay out of their affairs, but how could I stay silent while they drowned in filth? Emily idled at home for a year, worked a single month—now she issues ultimatums? Their flat’s becoming a tip, and my grandson breathes in that foul air. Has she no shame?
I know William won’t clean—he’s at his limit already. If this continues, their home will be lost under the grime. Reasoning with Emily is useless—she only snarls. But I’ll speak to my son. Not for their sake, but for the child, who shouldn’t grow up in this nightmare. How can anyone be so careless?