When I married "Martha," a single mother, I joked about finally getting the son and daughter I've always wanted. About three years into our marriage, my "son" appeared in the form of a 30-year-old smoker who stinks from his cigarettes and whatever cologne he uses as a substitute for bathing.

Martha asked me to let "Mitchell" stay until he got back on his feet, and I assumed she meant a few months. We now are running a filthy flophouse so Mitchell can save on rent, buy gadgets for his motorcycle and feed his expensive nicotine addiction. He sleeps most of the day and parties at night, often bringing home some woman or other to share his bed. He is rude to everyone.

We subsidize Mitchell's never-ending cell phone calls, cigarettes, women and hobbies by giving him room and board. He does buy most of his own food, but I resent being his scullery maid and garbage man.

Now Martha wants to sell the house and move closer to her daughter. Meanwhile, I finally have a job I love and don't want to move. I know I owe Martha plenty, but lately, our marriage consists of eating in front of the television. To make things worse, Martha neglects her health, is badly overweight, has terrible halitosis from poor oral hygiene, and I have only a vague memory of sex.

Martha says Mitchell is moving in with his latest lover, but the move better come with a "no return" policy. Thanks for letting me vent.

-- At Wits' End in North Carolina