In a quiet town near Southampton, where cobbled streets wind between rows of oak trees, my life at thirty-five has become an endless cycle of exhaustion and resentment. My name is Eleanor, married to James, and we have two young children—Lily and Oliver. We live with my parents, and until recently, our home was a haven of warmth and teamwork. But now that Mum and Dad have retired, everything has changed. Mum refuses to help around the house, declaring she’s “done her bit” and now deserves to live for herself. Her words cut deep, and the weight of household chores is suffocating. I don’t know how to break free from this vicious cycle.
Our family was once a picture of harmony. James and I worked—he’s a car mechanic, and I manage a beauty salon—while my parents kept the house in order. Responsibilities were shared fairly: if I got home early, I’d cook dinner; if Mum did, she’d take charge. Dad fixed anything broken, and Mum watched over Lily and Oliver. No one complained or kept score. We were a team, and it warmed my heart. I thought it would stay that way, especially once my parents retired and had more time.
But everything fell apart the moment they stopped working. I hoped they’d take on some of the load—help with the kids, pop to the shops, maybe cook a simple meal. After all, James and I are run ragged, coming home knackered after long days. Instead of support, I got indifference, and it eats away at me more with each passing day.
Now, walking through the door means drowning in endless tasks. Cooking, laundry, cleaning, dishes, helping the kids with homework—it all falls on me. The fridge is empty, the washing’s piled up, and the floors are grubby. I drag myself home after a shift only to face a kitchen demanding a meal for four. James helps where he can, but he’s shattered too. And my parents? They’re home all day but do nothing. Dad disappears into the shed or plays chess with the neighbors, while Mum obsesses over her roses and geraniums, rearranging pots like they’re the only thing that matters. I watch her and wonder: how can she be so blind to my struggle?
I’ve tried talking to her. “Mum, why can’t you at least make dinner? I’m dead on my feet,” I pleaded. Her reply was a knife to the heart: “Ellie, I’ve done my time. I raised you—now I want to live for me. I’ve earned my rest.” Earned it? What about me? Don’t I deserve a break too? Her words echo in my head, each one twisting the knot of hurt tighter. She doesn’t even see how hard I’m working, how I slog through chores while she admires her blooming flowers.
The tension in the house crackles like an oncoming storm. My parents seem oblivious to my pleas, lost in their own world—Dad tinkering with his vintage motorbike, Mum posting photos of her plants online. Meanwhile, I feel like a maid, expected to cater to everyone. Lily asks, “Mummy, why are you always cross?” Oliver cries when I’m too tired to play. James stays quiet, but I see how my complaints wear on him. And my parents? They don’t care. They won’t change, and that’s what breaks me.
How can they be home all day and not notice their daughter drowning? Why doesn’t Mum see how drained I am? I’m not asking for gourmet meals or a spotless house. But picking up groceries, throwing together a stew, ironing a few shirts—is that really too much? She’s only sixty-two, full of energy, yet she chooses her garden over me. I feel betrayed, abandoned in the home where I once felt happy.
What do I do? Talk to them again? Mum’s made it clear her leisure comes first. Move out? It feels like the only way, but how do I leave the house we’ve shared? Renting a flat means more bills, and we’re already scraping by. Swallow my anger and keep carrying the load? But I’m close to breaking. My life’s a hamster wheel, and I can’t see an exit.
This is my cry for help. Mum may think she’s earned her peace, but her indifference is crushing me. James tries, but his silence only deepens the ache. I want our home to feel warm again—for Lily and Oliver to see their mum smile, for me to breathe instead of suffocating under chores. At thirty-five, I deserve rest, not a life as my family’s unpaid servant.
I’m Eleanor, and I’m tired of being invisible. However hard the step, I’ll find a way to reclaim my life—even if it means leaving the house that no longer values me.