12November2025
Dear Diary,
Ive just been handed the boot and told to pack my duffel and head back to mums in Leeds. It all feels like a badly tuned sitcom, but its my life now.
Who on earth are we living with? I exclaimed, watching Blythe toss her hands in the air. And you know what grinds my gears the most? The fact you seem happy with everything while Im stuck in a nightmare!
Whats the matter, love? she asked calmly, eyes flickering with that familiar sparkle.
Its that I completely forgot our toilet isnt where it should be. Its smack in the middle of the shower, and I banged my knee on the cistern. Ive got a bruise the size of your little makeup bag!
What makeup bag, darling? I tried to stretch the words, enjoying the twitch of her left eye. The tiny one for lipstick, or the bigger one where you keep all your nailpolish tools you havent used in two months because every penny goes towards your male whims?
She muttered something, and the topic was deadended.
How did we end up here? Four months ago I was the happiest fiancé in the world. I had Blythe beautiful, clever, dependable (or so I thought) and a fresh flat in a new development in Manchester. It needed a fullblown renovation, which Id financed with the proceeds from my late grandmothers modest twobedroom in the city centre.
What went wrong? Everything. Absolutley everything.
It started when my prince on a white horse turned, almost overnight, into a professional whinger perched on the sofa.
Listen, love, Michaelmesaid, pulling a grimace that twisted my goodlooking face, ordinary people fix the house first, then move in. They dont live in a concrete box like some
Like some who? Blythe snapped, feeling righteous fury rise. What, the kind who cant afford £500 a month rent while theyre renovating? Or what?
I was taken aback. For the past two weeks Id been spending nights at mums spacious threebed flat, the one she inherited after her husband passed away without a will. Id quit my job three months ago and have been actively looking for work. In practice, that meant scrolling through vacancy sites and popping into interviews once a week, while most evenings I was glued to my PC, gaming.
Mum kept the cash flowing, blissfully unaware that her golden boy was lounging about. She heard the same sob stories I fed her: the economys in a slump, its hard to find a job as good as the one I lost, Im not keen on becoming a mover, and so on. All in all, Id found a comfortable excuse.
She asked, Hows mums place? Comfortable enough?
I puffed up. What does my mum have to do with it? She just worries about me! Shed have been gutted when I told her weve been washing in a bucket for two weeks because the shower still isnt hooked up!
We wont ever hook it up? I shouted. We? Or the bloke who promised to do the whole job himself, the one who claims he can wield a drill like a pro?
Apparently the whole renovation fell on Blythes shoulders. She was the one with the electric screwdriver, hauling bricks, fitting tiles, and dragging the washing machine into the kitchen. My contribution? A quick run to the shop for a tin of beans. Cooking? Not a chance.
I tried to answer, but she cut me off: Tell me, who put the toilet in the middle of the bathroom? Who was too lazy to read a proper floor plan?
At that moment Whiskers, my tabby, brushed against the commemorative mug Id bought for the movein. It toppled, shattering into a dozen pieces. I stared at the mess and thought it might be a sign.
Alright, love, I said, pulling myself together, maybe youre right. You shouldnt have to endure such shoddy conditions. Go back to mums, right now.
Blythe raised an eyebrow. You youre kicking me out?
Im freeing you from this misery, I replied, opening the new front door wed finally managed to hang correctly.
Mum will cook a proper dinner, wash your shirts, pull up your socks and even install a toilet where it belongs! Ill manage on my own here, she said, trying to smile. It came out more like a grimace between a lemon bite and a forced grin.
Enough, Blythe, I said, dont try to humour me. You wont survive without me!
What makes you think that? she laughed. Ive been handling this renovation solo for two months while youve been off to mums to whine about life. Yesterday I hooked up the washing machine myself after watching three YouTube tutorials. You couldnt even follow the instructions!
Ha! I chuckled. Even a child couldve done it.
Then why cant a child do it for you? I retorted.
I didnt I just didnt want to.
Exactly. What do you actually want? To lounge on the sofa and critique? To tell mum Im a lazy layabout living in inhuman conditions?
She interrupted, If you complain to mum again that Im starving you, Ill spill the beans about your job search: endless gaming, chasing shooterrunner games like a teenager, no repairs, no duties, no responsibilities.
Fine, fine, I sighed. Ill go to mums. When youve cooled off, well talk.
No, we wont, she snapped. Ive said my piece. Pack your things, say goodbye to mum. Shell be thrilled.
Understanding I wasnt joking, I began stuffing a few shirts and a battered pair of boots into a duffel. It didnt take long.
Its a blessing I never married you, I muttered, halfjoking, halfbitter. Youd have driven me mad, and wed have needed a divorce.
Exactly, she replied. Off you go. Good luck with the cat and the flat.
Heh. With Whiskers! Youll see, life with a cat is the sort of fate reserved for people like you. She added, Soon youll have a whole army of catsforty of them!
When she left, Whiskers hopped onto my lap, rubbing his head against my leg. I scooped him up and kissed the soft top of his head.
Alright, little man, youre the new head of the house. Well make it work, wont we?
He gave me a doubleeyed blink that I took as a yes.
Looking back, I realise Ive been living in denial. I let comfort and avoidance dictate my actions, and now Im paying the price. The lesson Im left with is simple: take responsibility early, stop feeding excuses, and remember that a home is built by two hands, not just one.
Michael.
