**Diary Entry – 10th May**
My daughter-in-law, Charlotte, took up a mop and cloth, joining a cleaning company here in our little town of Wetherby. Now she polishes strangers’ homes to perfection while her own has become an absolute disgrace. Filth, chaos, a lingering stench—and all with a toddler crawling on sticky floors! She claims she’s too exhausted from scrubbing at work to bother at home. But how can anyone live in such squalor without shame, especially when her little boy’s hands stick to every surface?
After maternity leave, Charlotte refused work for a full year. No shift suited her, no wage was enough. She turned her nose up at every offer while pining for roles that wouldn’t have her. Meanwhile, my son, Oliver, slogged through two jobs, barely keeping afloat with the mortgage and loans. And her response? To demand he be the “proper breadwinner” while she lounged at home, entranced by her own whims.
“Take *any* job for now—you’ll find better later,” I pleaded, watching Oliver wear himself to the bone.
“I won’t settle for rubbish! When I land something decent, then I’ll go. Till then, Oliver can sweat for it,” she’d snap, without a hint of remorse.
I could do nothing—I was barely managing myself, caring for my husband after his stroke. Every penny went to prescriptions and bills. Yet there Charlotte sat, living easy while her family drowned in debt. I bit my tongue, but resentment simmered.
At last, after a year, she stooped to a cleaning job. The pay’s decent, the hours flexible—suddenly, her excuses dried up, and she began contributing. I sighed in relief, hoping things might turn around. But no.
Visiting to dote on my grandson, my heart dropped. Once, Charlotte kept their flat immaculate—gleaming, everything in place. Now? It reeked of neglect. A mountain of clothes—clean or soiled?—loomed in the corner. The floor clung to my shoes like treacle. The bathroom stank as if untouched for years, grime crusting the sink, while mould crept over dishes in the kitchen. I scrubbed a few plates just to salvage some dignity, but fury trembled in my hands.
When Charlotte returned, I couldn’t hold back:
“Have you forgotten how to tidy? This is a disgrace! If anyone saw this, you’d die of shame!”
“Haven’t cleaned in weeks,” she sighed. “I’m wiped after work. Oliver won’t lift a finger, so here we are.”
I gaped. Oliver stumbles home past eleven, dead on his feet—and she expects him to scrub floors? She’s got flexible hours, the boy’s in nursery—time to spare! What does she do all day? Scroll her phone or nap?
“Seriously?” I snapped. “I clean *other* people’s houses for money—mine’s for resting! I earn as much as your precious Oliver now; let *him* play housemaid!”
“When’s he meant to clean? At midnight? He gets *one* day off!” I shot back, defending him.
“Then he’ll do it then,” she muttered.
I left heavy-hearted. I swore to Oliver I’d stay out of their mess, but how? Their flat’s becoming a tip, and my grandson breathes it in. Is she *truly* not ashamed?
I know Oliver won’t clean—he’s stretched thin. If this continues, their home will rot. Charlotte won’t listen—she’ll only snipe. But I’ll speak to Oliver. Not for them. For the boy, who shouldn’t grow up in this nightmare. How can anyone be so reckless?