I sit in the kitchen of our cramped flat in Manchester, clutching a cup of tea gone cold, the bitter taste of helplessness thick in my throat. My husband, James, and I built this family, and on the surface, it looks righta cosy home, a car, steady pay. But our happiness is cracking under the weight of his seventeen-year-old son from a past marriage, Ethan, whos moved in with us. He splits his time between his mothers place and ours, but lately, hes here more often, turning my life into a waking nightmare.
Ethan is like a splinter buried deep, festering. He treats me like a maid, leaves his mess everywhere, ignores dirty dishes, and shrugs off every plea for help. The worst part? He takes it out on my four-year-old, Oliver. Ive seen him cuff the boy round the head just for brushing against his phone. My little girl, Matilda, sleeps in our room because theres no space for a proper bed in this tiny two-bed flat. If Ethan just left, we could finally make room for our children.
But he wont go. His college is a stones throw away, and hed rather stay with his dad. He spends hours glued to his computer, shouting into his headset while gaming, keeping Oliver awake. Im worn thincooking, cleaning, the kidsand he wont lift a finger. His presence hangs over us like a storm cloud, poisoning every moment.
Ive begged James to talk sense into him, to send him back to his mother. His ex, Charlotte, lives alone in a spacious three-bed house. Meanwhile, were crammed like sardines in this shoebox, every corner screaming for air. Is that fair? Worse, Ethan bullies my children. Olivers starting to mimic himcheeky, defiant. Im terrified hell grow up just as cold, just as cruel.
James wont budge. “Hes my son, I cant kick him out,” he says, blind to my breaking point. We argue about Ethan every night. I feel like a worn-out packhorse, dragging this household alone while James turns a blind eye. Im sick of his excuses, this stubborn love for a boy whos tearing us apart.
One day, I snapped. Ethan yelled at Oliver over spilled juice, and I lost it.
“Thats enough! This isnt a bloody hotel! If youre not happy, go back to your mums!”
He just smirked. “This is my home too. Im not going anywhere.”
I shook with rage. James stormed in, took his side, accused me of “not trying.” I fled to our room, clutching a sobbing Matilda, tears hot on my cheeks. Why should I put up with this smug, lazy boy while his mother lives free, never sparing him a thought?
I need a way out. Maybe talk to Ethan directly? Tell him hed be better off at his mumshe could take the bus to college. But I know hell laugh in my face, and James will call me heartless. I dream of Ethan vanishing, of my children growing up in peace. But every sneer, every careless shove reminds me hes here, an unwelcome ghost I cant exorcise.
Sometimes I imagine packing up, taking the kids to my mums, leaving James to deal with his son alone. But I love him, and I wont break us apart. All I want is a quiet home. Why must I suffer, watching Ethan torment my babies while his mother enjoys her freedom? Im tired of the anger, tired of fearing for them. I need an escapebut where?
