“Why do you bother with that girl? She’s not even your own!”
This is the story of Eleanor, told in her own words—shared with permission. Every part of it is true. Every part aches with a familiarity many will recognize.
I married for the second time. My first husband, Thomas, died tragically—losing control of his motorbike on his way home. I was twenty-six then; my daughter Charlotte was barely two. We had only just begun to build a life together, settling into routines. The mortgage loomed over me, and with no job, no hands to help—I was adrift. Thomas’s parents had passed long before, and mine lived in a village near Newcastle, barely scraping by themselves.
Yet, strangely, someone appeared. It was Edward—Thomas’s old friend. He visited often, bringing Charlotte toys and fruit, fixing things around the house. At first, I kept my distance—grief was still fresh. But slowly, I leaned into his presence. He became family. Some may judge, but the living heart seeks the living. I never forgot Thomas—he lives in my daughter. But life moves forward.
A year later, Edward and I married. His family was less than pleased. His mother, Margaret, wasted no time making her stance clear: “A woman with a child? We don’t need that.” But Edward stood firm. We would live together—in their large house on the outskirts of Manchester, with its garden and greenhouse. My flat would be rented out, an extra income.
I agreed. Naively. I imagined family, support. Instead—from the first week—his mother ordered me about. “Wash this, weed that, cook, clean.” Charlotte was invisible to her—as if she were air. No greeting, no questions. Not even her name spoken. In that house, my daughter was a ghost.
I worked from dawn till dusk—inside, outside. My back ached, my hands rough. And still, Margaret scowled. Then, one day, I overheard words I’d never forget:
“Why waste time on that girl, Edward?” his mother hissed. “She’s nothing to you! Just a drain. Have your own child—that’s what matters.”
“Mum,” he snapped, “enough. This is my family. My choice.”
I pretended not to hear. But the words burrowed deep.
Later, our son was born—Oliver. The very image of Edward. Eyes, nose, even the dimple in his cheek. Margaret bloomed. Morning till night, she doted on her grandson. Charlotte? Still pushed aside. “Don’t touch,” “Stay back,” “Leave your brother alone.” One day, she shoved Charlotte so hard she fell. That was it.
“Enough!” I shouted. “She’s not rubbish, not a mistake. She’s my daughter, and you will treat her right!”
We said terrible things that day. After, Margaret quieted. She stopped the cruelty, but love never came.
Then came the final strike. Edward lounged on the sofa, idle, when the school called—Charlotte had hurt her leg in P.E., needed hospital care. I rushed to him:
“Come on! Charlotte’s hurt!”
He waved me off.
“Not my child. Why waste my day off? Let her rest at the hospital. She’ll be fine.”
A chill gripped me. Disgust. I packed Oliver, hurried to our neighbor who drove for a taxi firm. He took us. Thankfully, just a sprain—no break. Treatment, then home.
But home—to my parents. I called my tenants: clear the flat. We were leaving.
By evening, Edward rang.
“Where are you? What’s happening?”
Calmly, I answered:
“We won’t return. I have two children. If you learn to love them both—come to us. But only to *my* home.”
Silence. Then the line went dead.
What he’ll choose, I don’t know. But my choice is made: better alone than beside someone who refuses to see my daughter as human.
