My Husband’s Son Is Ruining Our Family: How to Remove His Presence
I sit at the kitchen table in our cramped flat in Birmingham, clutching a cold cup of tea, feeling the sting of angry tears in my throat. My husband, James, and I have built a life together—a cosy home, a car, steady jobs—and we’ve been blessed with two children. But our happiness is crumbling because of his 17-year-old son from his first marriage, Ethan, who lives with us. He splits his time between our place and his mother’s, but lately, he’s been staying here more, turning my life into a nightmare.
Ethan is like a thorn in my side. He treats me like a maid—leaving mess everywhere, ignoring dirty dishes, rolling his eyes whenever I ask for help. Worst of all, he bullies my four-year-old son, Oliver. I’ve seen him clip Oliver round the ear just because the little boy bumped his phone. My two-year-old daughter, Poppy, sleeps in our bedroom because there’s no space for her cot in our two-bed flat. If Ethan moved back to his mum’s, we could finally turn the spare room into a proper nursery.
But Ethan won’t leave. His school is just down the road, and living with his dad is more convenient for him. He spends all day glued to his computer, shouting into his headset, keeping Oliver awake. I’m exhausted—cooking, cleaning, looking after the kids—while he can’t even lift a finger. His presence is like a dark cloud hanging over our home, poisoning every moment.
I’ve begged James to talk to Ethan, to explain how much easier things would be if he stayed with his mum. His ex-wife, Rebecca, lives alone in a spacious three-bedroom house, while the four of us are crammed into this tiny place. How is that fair? Even if Ethan got along with my children, it might be bearable, but he’s cruel to them. Oliver’s started mimicking his rudeness, throwing tantrums and talking back. I’m terrified he’ll grow up just as cold and entitled.
James refuses to budge. “He’s my son—I can’t kick him out,” he says, over and over, blind to how much it hurts me. We argue about Ethan nearly every night. I feel like a packhorse, dragging this family forward while my husband turns a blind eye. I’m sick of his excuses, his blind love for a boy who’s tearing us apart.
One day, I snapped. Ethan shouted at Oliver for spilling juice, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Enough! This isn’t a hotel—you don’t get to behave like this! If you hate it here, go back to your mum’s!”
He just smirked. “This is my house. I’m not going anywhere.”
I shook with rage. James, hearing the row, took Ethan’s side, accusing me of “not trying hard enough.” I stormed off to our room, clutching a sobbing Poppy, and let the tears flow. Why should I put up with this rude, selfish teenager when his mum lives in comfort and barely thinks of him?
I’ve started wondering how to fix this. Should I talk to Ethan myself? Try to convince him he’d be happier with his mum? But I know he’ll just laugh in my face, and James will call me cruel. I dream of Ethan vanishing from our lives, of my children growing up in peace. But every glare, every sneer reminds me he’s here—an unwelcome guest I can’t shake.
Sometimes I imagine packing our things and leaving, taking the kids to my mum’s, letting James deal with his son alone. But I love my husband, and I don’t want to break us apart. All I want is a quiet home. Why should I suffer, watching Ethan torment my babies while his mother enjoys her freedom? I’m tired of the anger, tired of the fear. I need a way out—but I don’t know where to find it.
