“I never signed up to be a stepmother—this wasn’t my life, not my choice.”
When I met Thomas, he laid it all out straightaway: three kids from his first marriage, child support, lavish gifts for them, plans to buy each of them a flat. I was twenty-seven; he was thirty-seven. I knew what I was getting into. In fact, I was relieved he wouldn’t push me to have children—I’d always considered myself childfree by choice. No nappies, no school runs, just freedom. My time, my career, my life.
At first, it was manageable. Thomas rented a spacious house just outside Cambridge, earned well. The kids—polite, well-mannered—stayed with us on weekends. We got along fine, watched films together, cooked meals, and they treated me with respect. The role of “cool aunt on weekends” suited me. No one stepped on anyone’s toes.
That lasted two years. Then… everything unravelled. The eldest turned fourteen, clashed with his mother, and bolted straight to us. Thomas, as usual, was at the office dawn till dusk, leaving me alone with this surly teenager. Slamming doors, music blasting through headphones, muttered insults. A stranger in my home, acting like I meant nothing—because to him, I didn’t.
Three months later, Thomas’s ex “temporarily” dropped off the younger two. She was moving to Manchester, she said—new job, big promotion, she’d fetch them once she’d settled in. Except “temporarily” stretched into a year. Still no calls, no hints she’d take them back.
Now my house is full of children who aren’t mine. The eldest ignores me, rebels like I’m hired help. The middle one struggles with schoolwork, so every evening is spent poring over textbooks. The youngest is sweet but needs ferrying to clubs, matches, competitions. All of it falls on me.
I didn’t agree to this. I never wanted to be nanny, tutor, chauffeur, and chef rolled into one. My work’s dried up—freelance clients vanished, tired of waiting. My days are a blur of chores, errands, someone else’s needs. Where am I in all this?
I tried talking to Thomas. Calmly, rationally. He nods but says the same thing: “They’re my kids. I can’t turn them away.” Then adds, “You understand—it’s not their fault.” No, it’s not. But it’s not mine either. I didn’t birth them. I never promised to be their mother. I won’t set my life on fire for someone else’s choices.
Lately, I’ve realised there’s only one way out. Divorce. Freedom. I’m done being hostage to a family I didn’t build, mistakes I didn’t make. I’m not cruel—just a person who wants her own life, not one forced upon her. And if he can’t see that, we were never speaking the same language.
