Years ago (talking 1970s here) my home seemed to be the unofficial play centre for the neighbourhood ...after school, son and daughter would come home with half a dozen or so schoolmates, to play in the house and garden. Whoever was around at teatime, stayed for tea (yes, parents were that relaxed those days, not anguishing where their kids had got to after school). But one day, a mother phoned me us and told me curtly that her son had complained that the baked beans on toast I'd provided as an impromptu tea for any kids around at teatime were COLD! That I was speechless doesn't do it justice! Yes, I should have banned her bloody child from ever darkening my doors again, but of course I didn't.
I think, reading OP's post and subsequent thread, that perhaps OP's underlying concern is her husband's hoarding. I know ALL about that - my father was a junk antique dealer and our entire, five floor house was absolutely crammed with 'stock', boxes and boxes of it and some freestanding. The flights of stairs had about six inches of tread visible, with boxes, crap, each side and all the bedrooms of us kids were piled high with more boxes - and if one of us should be away, we'd return to find our bloody BED covered in more boxes.
Father just bought and bought but hated selling anything - think hoarding crossed with paranoia, in case someone might actually BUY something for, say, a tenner, and then sell it for eleven quid ... the thought that buyer had MADE A QUID drove my father crazy. So he sold practically nothing but kept buying. He and my mother were also chronic depressives. Happy days ...!
Our house's condition was so 'eccentric' it became, weirdly, almost a 'must visit' for my schoolmates, which was lucky for me, as I could so easily have become the class pariah. As it was, they angled for an invitation to the house, just to marvel at the state of it.
Mind you, I'm still marvelling at the sang froid of the girls who were there on the occasion of my fifteenth birthday party (my poor mother did try to make an effort at parties - her speciality was prawn vol-au-vents and wallnut cake). My father, in one of his massive sulks where he didn't speak to any of us for, usually, a fortnight, but took to his bed with tactical 'flu', suddenly appeared on the stairs, clad in his woollen long-johns, carrying a chamberpot full of urine! In as dignified a stalk as any man could manage in yellowing woollen longjohns bearing a pot of piss, he silently plodded past my friends and into the bathroom!
My schoolmates never referred to this afterwards, bless them - but it makes a slightly manky shower curtain seem pretty insignificant. But I'm trying to say that I do sympathise with OP about her husband's hoarding - it's so difficult and trying to get them to sort it a huge struggle. My mother never managed it and eventually divorced the old man. When he died, his house was still crammed from attic to cellar with junk, sorry, antiques.