I sat in the cramped kitchen of our flat in Manchester, clutching a cold cup of tea as tears of frustration welled up in my throat. My husband, Oliver, and I had built a life together—two children, a cosy home, a car, and steady incomes. Yet our happiness was crumbling because of his 17-year-old son from his first marriage, Ethan, who lived with us. Though he split his time between his mother’s place and ours, Ethan had settled in more permanently, turning my days into a nightmare.
Ethan was like a thorn in my side. He treated me like a maid, leaving messes everywhere, ignoring dirty dishes, and rolling his eyes whenever I asked for help. Worst of all, he bullied my four-year-old son, Alfie. I’d watched him cuff Alfie over the head just because the toddler had brushed against his phone. Our two-year-old daughter, Poppy, slept in our room since our two-bed flat had no space for her cot. If Ethan left, we could finally have a proper nursery for the little ones.
But Ethan wasn’t going anywhere. His school was just down the road, and living with his dad suited him fine. He spent hours glued to his laptop, shouting into his headset while Alfie struggled to nap. I was exhausted—cooking, cleaning, looking after the kids—while Ethan couldn’t lift a finger to help. His presence loomed over our home like a storm cloud, poisoning every day.
I’d begged Oliver to talk sense into him, to make Ethan see he’d be better off at his mum’s. His ex-wife, Claire, lived alone in a spacious three-bed house, while we were squeezed into this shoebox. Was that fair? Even if Ethan showed an ounce of kindness to my children, but no—he tormented them. Alfie had started mimicking his snide remarks and tantrums. I feared my son would grow up just as callous.
Oliver refused to budge. “He’s my son—I won’t throw him out,” he’d say, blind to how it gutted me. We rowed about Ethan nearly every night. I felt like a packhorse dragging this family forward while my husband turned a blind eye. I was sick of his excuses, his blind loyalty to a boy who was tearing us apart.
One day, I snapped. Ethan had yelled at Alfie for spilling juice, and I lost it.
“Enough! This isn’t a hotel—if you hate it here, go live with your mum!”
He just smirked. “This is my house. I’m not leaving.”
My hands shook with rage. Oliver took his side, scolding me for “not trying harder.” I stormed off, clutching a sobbing Poppy, and cried into her hair. Why should I put up with this rude, entitled teenager when his mother lived in comfort, barely sparing him a thought?
I started plotting ways to fix this. Maybe I could reason with Ethan—convince him his mum’s place was better, that the bus to school wasn’t so bad. But I knew he’d laugh in my face, and Oliver would accuse me of cruelty. I dreamed of Ethan vanishing so my kids could grow up safe and loved. But every glare, every sneer reminded me he was here to stay—a guest who’d overstayed his welcome.
Sometimes I imagined packing up the kids and leaving for my mum’s, forcing Oliver to deal with Ethan alone. But I loved my husband. I didn’t want to break our family. All I wanted was peace. Why should I suffer, watching Ethan torment my babies while his mum lived free? I was tired of anger, tired of fear. I needed a way out—but where?
