“Why do you bother with that girl? She’s not even your own!”
This is the story of Eleanor, as she told it herself—and allowed others to share. Every word of it is true. Every detail achingly familiar to many.
I married a second time. My first husband, Frederick, had died tragically—losing control of his motorcycle on his way home. I was twenty-six then, and my daughter, Beatrice, was barely two. We had only just begun to build a life together, settling into our routines. The mortgage weighed heavily on me, and with no job and no help, I was adrift. Frederick’s parents had passed long before, and mine lived in a village near Bristol, struggling to make ends meet themselves.
And yet, against all odds, someone stayed by my side. It was Gregory—my late husband’s closest friend. He visited often, bringing Beatrice toys and fruit, helping with household chores. At first, I kept my distance—grief still fresh. But in time, I softened. He became family. Some may judge me, but the heart of the living reaches for the living. Frederick was never forgotten—he lives on in Beatrice. But life moves forward.
A year later, Gregory and I married. His family was less than pleased. His mother, Margaret, made it plain from the start: “We’ve no need for a woman with another man’s child.” But Gregory stood firm. We would live together—in their large house on the outskirts of town, with its garden and greenhouse. My flat would be let out for income.
I agreed. Foolishly. I imagined a family, support, comfort. Instead… Within weeks, my mother-in-law began ordering me about. “Scrub this, weed that, cook the other.” Beatrice might as well have been invisible—no greeting, no attention, not even her name spoken. The child moved through that house like a ghost.
I toiled from dawn till dusk—inside and out. My back ached, my hands were calloused. Still, Margaret found fault. Then came the day I overheard words I’d never forget:
“Why d’you fuss over that girl, Gregory?” his mother hissed. “She’s nothing to you! Just a drain on your purse. Have a child of your own—that’s what matters.”
“Mum,” he snapped, “enough! She’s my family now. I’ll decide what matters.”
I pretended not to hear. But the words lodged like a knife.
Then our son was born—Henry. The very image of Gregory. Same eyes, same nose, even the dimple in his cheek. And at last, Margaret bloomed. She doted on her grandson from morning till night. Beatrice? Shoved aside as always. “Don’t touch him,” “Stay back,” “Leave your brother be.” One day, she pushed Beatrice so roughly the child fell. That was my breaking point.
“Enough!” I shouted. “She’s not refuse, not a mistake! She’s my daughter, and you will treat her with respect!”
We exchanged harsh words that day. Afterward, Margaret quieted. She stopped the cruelty, at least. But love never came.
Then came the final blow. Gregory was lounging on a Sunday when the school rang—Beatrice had hurt her leg in gym and was being taken to hospital. I rushed to him.
“Come quickly! Beatrice is hurt!”
He waved me off.
“Not my child. Why waste my day off? Let her rest there. She’ll be fine.”
A chill gripped me. Disgust. I bundled Henry up, marched to the neighbour who drove a cab, and reached the hospital. Thank God—only a sprain, not broken. Treated, then home.
But not to his home. I rang my tenants: vacate my flat. In a week, we’d move back.
By evening, Gregory called.
“Where are you with my son? What’s happened?”
Calmly, I replied:
“We won’t return. I have two children. If you ever learn to love them both—come to us. But only in my home.”
Silence. Then the line went dead.
What he’ll choose, I don’t know. But I’ve chosen this: better alone than bound to a man who cannot see my daughter as his own.