I am drained. No, not the intangible weariness of the heart; this is realbone and soul exhaustion from holding up two grown adults who insist on clinging to a permanent teenage limbo. Theyre both well into their twenties, radiantly healthy, never without the newest iPhones, expensive trainers, takeaways aplenty, and a house run like some peculiar five-star B&B. They rise in the afternoon, drift into the kitchen to inspect the fridge, and if the fare doesnt tickle their taste, they pull faces. Never once do they ask what meals cost. Never a thank you. Never a hand lent. Just endless expectation.
For years, neither of them has bothered with study. Courses begun and droppedNot quite them, they say. A-levels, night classes, distant dreams, all abandoned halfway. Im tired, they sigh, as if an imagined fatigue absolves them. Each venture dissolves the same way: excuses, make-believe stress, and quiet certainty that someonemewill sweep up the scraps. As for jobs, thats always impossible to find something decent. But any honest work is beneath them, apparently. Starting at the bottom? Unthinkable. Sponging off someone else? No shame at all.
They contribute nothingnot to bills nor groceries, not even to a bar of soap. Electricity, water, internet, streaming, their phone plansall on my tab. When something breaks, they ring me up, not to fix it, but to announce, The boilers gone. Finding a solution doesnt cross their minds. Clean laundry? Someone else has done the wash. Hot meal? Someone else cooked it. If the house is tidy, its because someone else cleared their careless trail, as if theyre mere passing guests.
And yetthey criticise. My character. My calendar. The way I speak. If Im worn out or irritable, if I say enough, if I ask for the bare minimum of respectthey mock. Responsibility, they sneer, as though its a punchline. Try putting your foot downYoure being dramatic. Ask them to tidy their room or take out the binsthey scoff. Tell them, theres no more money, and they look at me with utter disdain, as if my only purpose is to keep their lives cushioned and hassle-free.
The worst is realising this isnt about a lack of opportunities. They are not lostthey are settled, far too comfortably. Theyve grown used to a world where everything appears by magic and nothing is precious. Where a mother is an endless resource, not a person. Where the family account is simple inheritance, not earned by graft or care. And II see now that I was an accomplice, confusing patience for love, letting endurance masquerade as affection.
But no longer. Today, clear as London drizzle, I understood: raising children isnt about holding them forever, and loving them doesnt mean letting myself be emptied. I did not bring children into this world to rear idle adults with bottomless demands. Comfort spoils, silence misguides. If they wish to remain lazy, theyll do so far from my work, my home, and my hard-won peace. Motherhood is not lifelong servitude. I, too, reserve the right to rest from children who refuse to grow up.
