Im sitting in the cramped kitchen of our little flat in Manchester, clutching a mug of tea that went tepid hours ago, fighting back angry tears. On the surface, my husband, Charles, and I have ticked all the boxes of a happy family: a cosy home, a battered old Ford, steady paycheques. But our domestic bliss is being well and truly run through the wringer, thanks to his seventeen-year-old son from his first marriage, Oliver. Hes supposed to split his time between us and his mum, but lately he seems permanently welded to our sofa, turning my life into a sitcom only I dont remember auditioning for.
Oliver is like a splinter under your thumbnail. He treats me like Im the housemaid, leaves a trail of dirty socks and half-empty crisp packets everywhere, and responds to my requests for help with the kind of shrug that would make even a statue jealous. Worst of all, he takes it out on my own four-year-old, Freddie. Just last week, I caught him giving Freddie a clip round the ear just because the poor boy so much as looked at his phone. My little girl, Daisy, is still sleeping in our room because we havent got space for a bed in our two-bedroom cupboard of a flat. If Oliver would just move back in with his mum, maybejust maybewe could finally give our kids their own space.
But Oliver isnt going anywhere. His college is practically next door, and he much prefers living with his dad (and, by extension, me doing his laundry). He spends his evenings glued to his computer, yelling at his headset like hes calling Premier League matches, keeping Freddie up with the racket. Im knackeredcooking, cleaning, wrangling the little onesand cant even beg a finger lifted to help from him. His very presence hovers over our flat like a stubborn grey cloud, raining on every ounce of peace.
Ive tried pleading with Charles, nearly on my knees, to persuade Oliver to go back to his mums. His ex-wife, Victoria, rattles around all alone in a spacious three-bed, while we squeeze ourselves into our shoebox, desperate for elbow room. How is that fair? And if Oliver so much as got on with my children, maybe I could swallow it, but hes horrid to them. Freddie is picking up Olivers attitude, becoming cheeky and demanding. Im terrified hell grow up with the same brand of apathy and entitlement.
Charles refuses to do anything. Hes my son, I cant chuck him out, he says, blind as a bat to my misery. Arguments about Oliver flare up most nights now. Its like Im pulling the family caravan single-handedly while Charles pulls the blinds down over reality. Im done with his excuses and this blind love for a teenager whos tearing our family to bits.
Then, the other day, I finally lost the plot. Oliver was shouting at Freddie over a spilt splash of orange squash and I just snapped:
Enough! This isnt a hotel! If youre so unhappy, maybe its time you went back to your mums!
He just snorted and rolled his eyes.
