“Im not your maid or your bloody servant, washing and feeding your son on top of everything else! If youve brought him to live here, you can jolly well look after him yourself!”

Emily froze with the knife hovering over the chopping board. The smell of fried onions and garlicher own dinnerseemed to vanish, replaced by the sharp sting of irritation rising in her throat. Slowly, she turned. Piled in the armchair like a heap of dirty laundry were jeans, crumpled T-shirts, and socks stiff with sweat and dirt. The faint, unmistakable reek of teenage boy hung in the air.

She said nothing. Instead, she stared at the back of Olivers head as he lounged on the sofa, eyes glued to Formula 1 roaring on the telly. He hadnt even bothered to look at her when hed barked his orderslike she was some bloody voice assistant, expected to jump at his command. Behind the closed door of the spare room sat sixteen-year-old Ethan, her “temporary” lodger for the last four months. From the furious clicks of his mouse and muffled swearing, he was deep into some online battlefar too busy to think about laundry or meals. Why would he? Thats what Emily was for.

“Im not your bloody housekeeper!” Her voice didnt wavercold and firm, cutting through the engine noise.

Oliver frowned, finally turning his head. His face was the picture of confusion, like shed just spoken in tongues.

“Whats got into you? Its not like its any extra work! Youre already doing the washing, arent you? And cooking for everyone. Why make a fuss over nothing?”

The sheer casualness of it hit her like a punch. To him, she wasnt a personjust another appliance. Fill the washing machine, stock the fridge, keep everything running without complaint. Hed never noticed her exhaustion, the hours she spent cooking while they lazed about. She was just there to make life easier for them.

Without another word, she stalked to the armchair, plucked the heap of laundry between two fingers, and marchednot to the bathroom, but to the balcony.

“Oi, where dyou think youre going?” Oliver sat up, wariness creeping into his voice.

Emily shoved open the balcony door. The icy November air slapped her face. One step, then anotherand with a flick of her wrist, the clothes tumbled over the railing, vanishing into the dark below.

She shut the door quietly. Oliver was gaping at her, face turning purple.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” he finally bellowed.

“No,” she said, returning to her frying pan. “Ive found it. I agreed to live with younot adopt your grown son. From now on, you two can look after yourselves. And tell Ethan his school uniforms on the lawn. Better hurry before the bins get collected.”

The roar of engines from the telly faded into Olivers furious spluttering. Ethan, drawn by the shouting, poked his head outhis usual bored gamer expression replaced by confusion as he glanced between his red-faced dad and Emily, calmly chopping vegetables.

“Dad, whats going on?”

“Whats going on?” Oliver jabbed a finger at the balcony. “Your clothes are fertilising the garden! She chucked them out! Go fish em up before some dog makes off with them!”

The humiliation on Ethans face was almost comical. King of his virtual world, now reduced to scrabbling for his own dirty laundry under the block of flats. Without a word, he grabbed his trainers and bolted out the door. Oliver stood there, heaving like a bull, waitingfor shouting, tears, maybe even an apology. But Emily just kept cooking. Her icy calm infuriated him more than any row.

“Youll regret this,” he spat before storming off.

For a week, the flat became a silent warzone. Oliver and Ethan, convinced this was just a tantrum, dug in their heels. Theyd prove they didnt need herby turning the place into a tip. The kitchen was first. Breakfasts went unmade, leaving a trail of burnt toast and milk-splattered counters. Piles of pizza boxes, crisp packets, and sticky glasses grew like some grotesque art installation. The air thickened with the stench of takeaways and stubbornness.

But Emily didnt break. She moved like a ghostwashing only her dishes, wiping only her half of the mirror. Her bedroom stayed pristine, an island of calm in their self-made chaos.

On the seventh day, Oliver cracked. Her indifference was worse than any shouting. He stomped into her roomspotless, smelling of fresh linenand zeroed in on her new cream coat hanging neatly on the chair. A symbol of her independence.

He returned with pizza crumbs and pickle juice, smearing them over the fabric with cold satisfaction. Ethan watched, silent.

When Emily came home, she didnt scream. She didnt even blink. Just folded the ruined coat away, dialled a locksmith, and left again.

While Oliver and Ethan were out, she worked fast. Black bin bags swallowed their clothes, their clutter, their very presence. By the time the locksmith finished, six bulging sacks stood by the door.

That evening, the key didnt fit. Pounding. Yelling.

“Emily! Open this door! Whats this about?”

She sipped her tea. “Your things are on the landing. This isnt your home anymore.”

Olivers roar shook the walls. “I live here! Open up or Ill break it down!”

“Try it,” she said calmly. “Thats breaking and entering.”

The threats faded as they hauled their bags awayto his mums cramped flat, probably.

Alone, Emily flung open every window, letting the cold air purge the flat of them. She scrubbed, polished, lit pine-scented candles. By morning, the place was hers.

A week later, Oliver turned up, rumpled and sulky. “Look, we were wrong. Ethans got nowhere proper to livewere crammed at Mums. This isnt right.”

She took the bag of her things hed accidentally taken. “No, its not right for you. For me? Its perfect.”

“But were family!”

“No. Familys something you build. You were just a weight I cut loose.” The door clicked shut.

She heard later hed rented a grotty room on the outskirts. Ethan got shipped back to his mum. Meanwhile, Emily signed up for pottery classesfinally doing what she wanted, in her own spotless flat. Learning, for the first time, how to be happy.