“My Son Moved Back In After His Divorce: Now My Home Feels Like a Mess”

I never imagined that at 60 years old, I would be sharing my small two-bedroom apartment with my 30-year-old son again. Jason was always a good kid, despite the challenges we faced after his father walked out on us. I did my best to provide for him, working long hours and making sure he had everything he needed. He always assured me that one day, he would make things easier for me.

Jason grew up to be a responsible young man. He did well in school, got a good job, and eventually married a lovely woman named Emily. They seemed happy together, and I was relieved to see him settled. Even though he never mentioned it to Emily, Jason would send me money every month to help with my expenses. It was his way of keeping his promise to make my life easier.

But life has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect them. A year ago, Jason and Emily’s marriage fell apart. The reasons were complicated, involving long work hours, misunderstandings, and growing apart. Before I knew it, Jason was knocking on my door with a suitcase in hand, asking if he could stay with me until he got back on his feet.

Of course, I welcomed him with open arms. He was my son, after all. But as the weeks turned into months, it became clear that this arrangement was far from temporary. Jason seemed to sink deeper into a state of depression and lethargy. He spent most of his days lying on the couch, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and beer cans. My once tidy apartment now looked like a bachelor pad gone wrong.

I tried to talk to him about finding a job and moving out, but he always had an excuse. “I’m just not ready yet, Mom,” he’d say. “I need more time to figure things out.” I wanted to be supportive, but it was hard not to feel frustrated and overwhelmed by the mess and the lack of progress.

The financial help that Jason used to provide stopped coming as well. Without his contributions, I struggled to make ends meet on my fixed income. The bills piled up, and I found myself dipping into my meager savings just to keep the lights on.

I missed the days when my home was a sanctuary, a place where I could relax and feel at peace. Now, it felt like a burden, a constant reminder of how far things had fallen apart. I loved my son dearly, but I couldn’t help but wish for the day when he would find his way again and move out.

Friends and family offered their advice, suggesting everything from tough love to professional counseling. I tried to encourage Jason to seek help, but he resisted. “I don’t need therapy,” he’d snap. “I just need some time.”

Time passed, but nothing changed. The mess grew bigger, the bills higher, and my hope dwindled. I began to wonder if Jason would ever get back on his feet or if this was our new normal.

As much as it pained me to admit it, I started to resent him for turning my life upside down. I longed for the days when I could come home to a clean apartment and not worry about whether there would be enough money to cover the rent.

I still hold onto a sliver of hope that one day Jason will find the strength to move forward, get a job, and maybe even remarry. But for now, my home remains a chaotic mess, and my heart heavy with worry.