“I’m not your cook or your maid to wash and clean up after your son as well! If you’ve brought him to live with us, kindly take care of him yourself!”
“Emily, we need to sort something out for Jack tomorrow. He wont eat the meatballsmake him those pork chops like last time, and fry up some potatoes. Oh, and” Oliver, eyes glued to the racing cars flashing across the TV, gestured absently 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 onions and garlicher own dinnerseemed to vanish, replaced by the sharp sting of irritation rising in her throat. She turned slowly. Piled on the armchair was a crumpled heapjeans, T-shirts, socks stiffened into tight little ballsall faintly sour with teenage sweat and street grime.
She said nothing. She stared at the back of Olivers head, at the way he lounged on the sofa, absorbed in the roar of engines. He hadnt even bothered to look at her while giving ordersas if she were a voice assistant or a piece of furniture programmed to obey. Behind the closed door of the spare room sat sixteen-year-old Jack, her “temporary” housemate for the last four months. The furious clicks of a mouse and muttered swearing told her he was deep in some online battle. The idea of washing his own clothes or cooking his own meals clearly hadnt crossed his mind. Why would it? Thats what Emily was for.
“I’m not your cook or your maid to wash and clean up after your son as well! If youve brought him to live with us, kindly take care of him yourself!”
Her voice didnt waver. It was firm, cutting through the screech of tyres from the television.
Oliver frowned, reluctantly turning his head. His face was a picture of genuine confusion, as if shed suddenly spoken in another language.
“Whats got into you? Is it really that hard? Youre doing the washing anywaywhats the difference between two T-shirts or four? And you cook for all of us. Why make a fuss over nothing?”
The sheer simplicity of his words struck her like a slap. To him, there *was* no difference. She was an appliancea washing machine you loaded, a fridge you 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 another word, she walked to the armchair, pinched the heap of dirty laundry between two fingers, and carried itnot to the washing machine, but toward the balcony.
“Where are you going with that?” Oliver asked warily, sitting up.
Emily said nothing. She slid open the balcony door. The crisp November air hit her face. Stepping outside, she reached the railingand 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 as he stood.
“Have you lost your mind?!” he finally roared.
“No,” she replied calmly, returning to the chopping board. “Ive found myself. I agreed to live with *you*, not adopt your grown child. From now on, you both take care of yourselves. Cook, clean, do your laundry. My kindness has run out. And tell Jack his school uniform is on the lawn. Hed better hurry before the binmen come.”
The roar of engines from the TV was drowned out by Olivers furious spluttering. Jack, drawn by the shouting, peeked out from his roomhis usual bored or gaming-fixated expression now slack with confusion.
“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 and pick them up before the foxes get them!”
The humiliation on Jacks face was almost tangible. The king of his virtual world, publicly scolded and sent on the mortifying mission of retrieving his own dirty laundry from the front garden. Without daring to look at Emily, he grabbed his trainers and slipped out.
Oliver stood panting in the middle of the room, waitingfor shouting, for tears, maybe even an apology. But Emily just kept cooking. Her icy calm infuriated him more than any argument.
“Youll regret this, Emily. Deeply,” he ground out before slumping back onto the sofa.
From that evening, the flat became a silent battleground. Oliver and Jack, returning with an armful of damp, crumpled washing, opted for passive resistance. They were certain this was just a tantrumone that would pass if they held their ground.
The kitchen was the first casualty. The next morning, Emily made herself coffee, washed her bowl, and left for work. Oliver and Jack, faced with an empty fridge and no breakfast, attempted their own. The resulta milk-splattered hob, a pan of blackened egg scraps, and a sink piled high with disheswas left untouched. Their first shot fired.
That evening, Emily ignored the mess, cooked herself a light meal, and retreated to her room. Day after day, the chaos grewpizza boxes on the floor, crisp packets on the sofa, sticky rings on the coffee table. The air thickened with the scent of stale takeaways and stubbornness. They waited for her to break.
She didnt.
Instead, she carved out her own spaceclean, orderly, untouched by their squalor. Their tactics shifted from defiance to outright sabotage.
One evening, Oliver marched into her bedroomher sanctuary of fresh linen and spotless surfacesand deliberately ruined her new cream coat, smearing it with pizza grease and pickle brine.
Emily didnt scream. She didnt argue. She simply folded the ruined coat away and made a phone call.
“Hello? I need my locks changed. Today.”
When the locksmith left, she packed every trace of Oliver and Jack into black bin bags and stacked them by the door. That evening, their furious pounding and demands were met with one calm reply:
“Leave. Your things are on the landing. This isnt your home anymore.”
Their threats faded as they dragged their bags awayto his mothers cramped flat, or some dingy rented room.
Emily threw open every window, letting the cold air purge the flat of their presence. She scrubbed, polished, and reclaimed her space.
A week later, Oliver returned, scruffy and tired. “Emily, lets talk. This has gone too far.”
She took the bag of her things hed accidentally taken.
“We were family!” he insisted.
“No,” she said softly. “Family isnt something you *are*. Its something you *become*. And you were just a burden. Dont come back.”
She closed the door.
Months later, she heard through mutual friends that Oliver was struggling in a tiny rented room, while Jack had been sent back to his resentful mother.
Meanwhile, Emily signed up for pottery classessomething shed always wanted to try. Weekends were herssometimes spent with friends, sometimes in blissful solitude in her spotless flat.
She had learned a valuable lesson: sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is walk away.
