I never signed up to be a stepmother—it wasn’t the life I had chosen for myself.
When I first met Edward, he was frank from the start: three children from his first marriage, child support, generous gifts for them, plans to buy each of them a flat someday. I was twenty-seven; he was thirty-seven. I knew what I was getting into. In fact, I was even pleased he wouldn’t pressure me into having children—I’d always been one of those who never wanted to be a parent. Child-free by choice, clear and deliberate. A life of freedom, travel, work, my own time.
At first, it was even pleasant. Edward rented a spacious house outside Oxford and earned a comfortable living. The children—polite, well-mannered—visited on weekends, sometimes staying overnight. I got on well with them; we watched films together, cooked nice meals, and they treated me with respect. In short, I was content being the “nice aunt on weekends.” No one got in anyone’s way.
That lasted two years. Then… everything fell apart. The eldest, William, turned fourteen, had a row with his mother, and practically fled to us. Edward, as usual, was at work from dawn till dusk, leaving me alone with a surly teenager. Slamming doors, music blaring through headphones, sharp retorts. A stranger’s child now lived in my home, behaving as if I were nothing to him—and he was right, because I wasn’t.
Three months later, Edward’s ex-wife “temporarily” sent the younger two as well. She was moving to Manchester, she said—new job, higher position, just needed time to settle in before taking them back. Except “temporarily” stretched into a year. The children were still here. No calls, no indication she ever meant to reclaim them.
Now I had three strangers living under my roof. William ignored me, defied me at every turn, as if I were hired help. The middle one, Henry, struggled with schoolwork, needing my help every evening. The youngest, Charlotte, was the easiest, but still required to be driven to clubs, lessons, competitions. All of it fell to me.
I never agreed to this. I didn’t want to be a nanny, tutor, chauffeur, and cook rolled into one. My work suffered. I was a freelancer, once with steady clients, commissions, my own income. Now—silence. People stopped waiting on me because I was always tied up with the children. Days blurred into a whirl of errands and chores. Where was *I* in all of this?
I tried talking to Edward. Calmly, like adults. He nodded but gave the same reply: “They’re my children. I can’t turn them out.” And then, “You understand, it’s not their fault…” No, it wasn’t. But it wasn’t mine either. I hadn’t borne them. I hadn’t promised to be their mother. I wasn’t prepared to give up my life for someone else’s choices.
Lately, I’ve caught myself thinking there’s no way out. Only divorce. Only freedom. I’m tired of being trapped in someone else’s family, someone else’s mistakes, someone else’s children. I’m not cruel. I’m just a person who wants to live her own life, not one forced upon her. And if he can’t understand that—then perhaps, from the beginning, we were never speaking the same language.
