When “Helping” Turns Into Being Used
Here’s the thing about me: I’m meticulous about my home.
I bought this house myself before I married Victor — years of working full-time, freelancing on weekends, counting every dollar. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every plant has a story I paid for.
This house is the only place that feels like mine. The one space my body has never betrayed me.
Violet is the opposite of meticulous. She is pure chaos.
Within weeks of her moving in, my sanctuary looked like a storm had passed through:
- Clothes draped over chairs
- Half-empty glasses on side tables
- Damp towels abandoned in corners
- Dirty socks on the coffee table where I drink my morning tea
It didn’t just look messy. It felt like an invasion.
I tried to be gentle.
“Vi, can you try to be a bit more mindful?” I asked one morning. “I really need the house tidy right now. It helps me breathe. I’m still… recovering.”
She burst into tears immediately.
“I’m sorry, Ruby,” she sobbed. “I promise I’ll do better. I’m just so tired all the time.”
