When I married James, I knew he had a daughter from his first marriage. His ex, Emily, had walked out on the child six years ago—packed her bags and dashed off to France with some new bloke, starting fresh. In that time, she’d popped out two more kids, remembered her eldest twice a month over video calls, and sent presents only on birthdays. I’d watch the girl stare at her phone screen, willing her mum to say, “Come live with me.” But the invite never came. Not once. She’d simply erased her daughter from her life.
At first, the girl lived with James’s mum, Margaret. But she quickly grew weary—couldn’t keep up with the school runs, the tantrums, the drama. So, she packed the granddaughter off back to her dad. James brought her home, looked me in the eye, and quietly said, “Sophia’s staying with us. For good.”
I tried, honestly. Bought her clothes, cooked her favourite meals, picked her up from school, had heart-to-hearts. Played the friend card. But she shut me out. Built a brick wall between us and didn’t even pretend to chip at it. She didn’t just ignore me—she made it clear I was an intruder in her world.
Three years on, the girl’s twelve now. Still here. Still ruling the flat like it’s hers, not ours. Every evening, it’s the same whinge to her dad: “Auntie Lucy made me tidy my things,” “Auntie Lucy didn’t get me what I wanted.” Then Margaret rings me, tutting about how I “don’t pay enough attention” and how I’d “better learn to be a proper mum before the baby comes.” Funny, that—she won’t lift a finger to help, not even for an hour when I’ve got a doctor’s appointment or extra shifts at work.
I’m exhausted. Between work, housekeeping, cooking, and now pregnancy, I’m running on fumes. James isn’t taking his daughter’s side, exactly, but he still nudges me to be gentler, more patient. Trouble is, I’ve hit my limit. That girl’s become a permanent itch I can’t scratch. She’s messy, rude, ungrateful, never listens, and is perpetually sulking. She’s not mine, and I’ve stopped pretending otherwise.
Sometimes, I sit at the kitchen table at midnight, wondering, “What if I’d said no back then? What if I’d not caved?” Too late now. I can’t walk away—not with a baby on the way. And though it sounds rotten, I catch myself wishing his daughter would just… decide to go back to Granny’s. Pack her bags and declare, “I’d rather live with Gran.” I wouldn’t beg her to stay. Wouldn’t shed a tear.
I just want peace. No more guilt trips, no more turf wars. I want my child to grow up in a home filled with love, not clenched jaws and slammed doors. Maybe this is the only way to keep my family—and my sanity—intact.
