I Don’t Want Your Son Living With Us After the Wedding: When a Stepmother’s Ultimatum Forces a Father to Choose Between Love and His Child

Author Wanda MirandaReading 9 minViews 2

I dont want your son to live with us after the wedding

Tuesday, 12th May

Today was another strange day in this house. I suppose I need to get some thoughts off my chest, something Ive really been struggling with.

Earlier, I found little William standing hesitantly by the kitchen doorway as I was frantically finishing arrangements on my laptop. Auntie Grace, could you help me with my maths, please? he asked so quietlyhe knew his father would be at work until the evening and that his test is tomorrow.

Not looking up from my screen, I replied, Sorry Will, I really dont have the time. The wedding is just in a fortnight and theres still so much to sort. You do want your dad and me to have the perfect wedding, dont you?

He nodded, a bit lost, his shoulders drooping as he shuffled off to his room. Its quite obvious he doesnt like me, but Peter is so happyI keep reminding myself that I have to persevere for his sake.

Wills mum is very ill. She couldnt look after him any longer, so Peter, my fiancé, took him in. An eight-year-old shouldnt have to see his mother suffer like that, he said when he brought William home. I wasnt thrilled by the change in our plans, but I kept quietarguing before the wedding just seemed foolish.

When Peters at home, I always make an effort to look compassionate and supportive, the sort of woman who would be a good stepmother. But as soon as he leaves, I barely pay William any attention. Im not great with children, especially someone elses.

Then, just two days before the wedding, Peters computer broke so he borrowed my laptop. He said hed only use the browser to send an important email, but I caught him looking through my browsing history. As soon as he saw it, I could tell by his face something was wronghe looked darker with every second. He snapped the laptop shut, marched to the living room, and confronted me where I was watching telly.

Whats all this nonsense about boarding schools for William, Grace? He tried to sound calm but there was anger simmering under the surface.

What are you talking about? I shot back, frowning. You only needed to send an email. Didnt realise youd go snooping around. Dont you feel the least bit ashamed?

But he didnt flinch. Just answer me. Who gave you the right to decide what happens with my child?

Thats exactly ithes your child, Peter. Not ours. Well have children of our own, you and I. William just gets in the way. Hes failing at school, sinking from Cs to Ds. What sort of example will that set? My words rushed outI surprised myself at how much I meant them.

Hes traumatised! His mothers gravely ill, hes been torn from everything he knew! And instead of helping him, youre plotting to push him away. Peter was shouting now. Thankfully, Will was at school.

Dont yell at me! I retorted. Im not obliged to raise your son. He can go to his gran, or you can accept my solution.

When were you planning to share your brilliant plan? After our honeymoon, or after a month? he demanded.

In a few days, actually, I said, not even trying to hide it. No sense pretending. My cousin works in child services, everything could be sorted quickly. Itd be best for him.

Peter suddenly grew very quiet, Let me make something clearI could never betray my boy. I love him more than anything in this world.

What about me? Dont I matter? Dont you love me? My voice was shaking, but I felt the rage bubbling over. Well, I dont want your son living with us after the wedding. Its me or him, Peter. Choose.

Him, he said without a moments doubt. Finding a new woman isnt difficult, but I only have one son.

Oh, is that it now, I sneered, furioussome other womans just going to waltz in and love your son? Dont make me laugh! No one wants someone elses child!

Peter picked up his coat, paused at the front door, and spoke quietly, You have an hour to pack your things and leave. Take the gifts if you wantI dont care. I dont want to see you again. You were never the love of my life, Grace. I just hoped to find William a new mum, thats all.

Wait, Peterwhat about the wedding? I cried, stunned. I’d been so sure hed beg me to stay!

I thought Id made myself clear, Peter replied, as if surprised I didnt understand. There wont be any wedding. Ive made my choice, and its not in your favour. Pack your bags. If I come back and youre still here, I wont be polite.

The door slammed, leaving me alone in the flat. I sank onto the sofa, numb. I had started to think of this place as mine. I didnt want to leave.

The doorbell rang. Hope flared stupidlymaybe Peter had cooled off?

Parcel for you, the delivery lad said, passing me the scanner. I almost snapped the pen signing for it, he looked at me oddly and left as quickly as he came.

Inside the box was my wedding dress, shimmering mockinglyexpensive, beautiful, and now pointless. I threw it to the corner, stamping on the once-perfect gown, turning it into a pile of tattered cloth.

Furious, I grabbed my phone and rang Louise. Dragged the suitcase from the cupboard as I waited for her to answer.

Whats up? she grumbled. Youre up latewedding jitters?

Theres not going to be any wedding! I hissed, switching to speakerphone as I wrangled the suitcase closed. Could you come and pick me up?

What happened? Did he hurt you? Louises voice sharpened with concern.

Oh, he hurt me all right! I said, and described the whole spat. There was silence, then a long sigh. Are you seriously saying you wanted to get rid of his boy?

Of course! Why would I want him here? If it was my own child, itd be different, I sniffed.

Louise was quiet. Then she answered, I dont understand you, Grace. And frankly, I dont want to. I never thought you could do something like this.

Dont care what you think, I snapped, forcing the zip shut. Are you coming?

No, she replied, flat as a board. Ring someone else.

Fine, Ill get a taxi…

***********************************************

Peter picked Will up from school and took him to the park to feed the pigeons. The boy was so pleased to have his father to himself, but his concern still showed as he asked, Dont you need to help Auntie Grace with the wedding?

Peter smiled, No, Will. There wont be a wedding, after all. You wont be too upset if Grace doesnt live with us, will you?

Wills eyes shone with relief. Not upset at all, Dad. Honestly, I didnt like her much. She never wanted me round.

Peter hugged him tight. Thats alright, son. For now, itll just be the two of us. But someday, therell be someone out there wholl love you as if youre her very ownA cool breeze ruffled Peters hair as he looked down at William. Shall we get ice cream before we go home?

Will grinned, nodding. They wandered to the van, hand in hand, the sun breaking through the clouds abovea small blessing, Peter thought. As they licked melting cones on the bench, William leaned against his father, quiet for a moment, then whispered, When Mum gets better, will she come home?

Peter swallowed, brushing a strand of hair from his sons forehead. Well hope for that together, alright? But even if its just us, thats enough. You and mewere a team.

Will nodded, and the weight on Peters chest eased a little. He found, in the hush of the afternoon, that the world seemed less complicated than it had only hours before.

Later, when they returned to the flat, Peter found Graces perfume lingering in the hallway, her shoes still by the door. He bagged them quietly, his movements steady, then set to making toast and beans for suppersimple, solid, warm. Will set the table with mismatched plates and, for the first time in months, chattered about his favourite dinosaur.

That night, after tucking Will into bed, Peter stood in the doorway and watched his son drift to sleep. The flat was quieter than ever, yet the silence was gentle, almost hopeful. He closed the door softly and let himself smile.

He realized, as he turned out the lights, that sometimes love means holding onand sometimes, it means letting go, so something better can grow in its place.

The Waiter Rushed Over to Take Away the Kitten, but a Six-Foot-Tall Gentleman Scooped Up the Crying Fluffy Baby and Placed Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Meat!” “Let’s wear something bold—almost like the young nymphs—and head to a swanky restaurant. Time to show ourselves off and size up the men…” So declared one of the three friends—a headteacher of a prestigious, exclusive private school, always armed with the cleverest words her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, in their view, for short skirts and blouses that revealed rather than concealed. Deep necklines, flawless makeup, every piece of battle armor in place. The restaurant matched their expectations: posh, elite, and outrageously expensive, but well within their means. With a reserved table, they settled in, basking in admiring looks from men—and resentful glances from their companions. Of course, conversation turned to the main topic: men. Dreams, desires, and requirements. Each dreamed of her ideal—tall, fit, charming, and decidedly wealthy. The kind who’d carry you, indulge whims, spare you dull chores and chatter. And if noble-born, even better. “Just not like… those.” The friends glanced at a trio of cheerful, slightly pudgy men with thinning hair, surrounded by pints, chips, mountains of steak, and enthusiastic talk of football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, genuine, and utterly unrefined. “Dreadful.” “How gauche.” “Ugh.” The verdict was unanimous: uncouth, rough, clearly lacking sophistication and utterly unfit for such dazzling ladies. But then, something happened that changed the night’s tone in an instant. He arrived—stepping out of the latest model red Ferrari. “Lord Charles Saxon Coburg!” the waiter announced with grandeur. The friends perked up like pointer dogs catching a scent. Tall, athletic, with distinguished silver hair and a suit worth more than most homes. Diamond cufflinks and a blindingly white shirt completed the look. “Ahh…” “Oh wow…” “Mmm…” Necks craned, eyes grew bolder. “This is a real man,” one whispered, “A lord, a stunner, and a millionaire,” said the second. “I’ve always dreamed of the Bahamas—since childhood, actually.” The third stayed silent, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the Lord’s table. They strode over grandly, casting condescending glances at other guests—especially at the football-and-steak trio. The Lord was charming, a master conversationalist, spinning tales of lineage, stately homes, and priceless art. Tension simmered between the friends—each knew only one would be invited to continue the night. Dinner was an icebreaker: lobsters, platters of seafood, and rare vintage wine. The ladies gazed dreamily at the Lord, imagining a future far beyond the dining room. Rosy-cheeked and glowing, they were at their best. The Lord shone too—cracking high-society jokes and sharing stories of the elite. At this point, it hardly mattered where he’d invite them next. Outside, the restaurant had a small garden. The irresistible aroma wafted out, and soon a tiny, skinny grey kitten tiptoed in—hungry, hopeful, and sitting right at the Lord’s feet. But the Lord’s face twisted in disgust. He callously pushed the kitten away with his shoe. The little one skidded several feet, bumping into the table leg beside the football pals. Silence blanketed the restaurant. “I despise filthy, mongrel creatures,” the Lord declared loudly. “At my estate, we have purebred hounds and the finest horses.” The waiter rushed to appease him: “We’ll sort it out right away, our apologies…” He headed for the football table but one of the men—a giant, nearly two meters tall, red-faced and fists clenched—was already up. His friends tried to restrain him. He silently lifted the kitten onto a chair. “A plate for my furry friend!” he thundered. “Your very best meat. Now.” The waiter paled and sprinted to the kitchen as applause rippled through the room. One of the “nymphs” stood and joined the titan, declaring: “Move over, and get a lady a whisky.” The Lord was speechless. Moments later, the other two friends joined them, bestowing the Lord with icy glares. Not all left together that night. In one group: a man, a woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the giant—now the owner of a major investment firm. Her two friends wed his mates, both renowned solicitors. The three weddings were held the same day. Their lives are different now—nappies, cooking, housework. All have daughters born close together. But to enjoy the old favourite restaurant, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call for a babysitter, and meet again—to talk about womanly matters, and men. As for Lord Charles Saxon Coburg—he was arrested a year later, exposed in a high-profile trial as a romance scammer who duped countless women. Real men, thankfully, are a different breed. I’m speaking of those three—chubby, balding, unpolished, and lacking airs, but truly noble-hearted. That’s just how it is. There’s no other way.

Julia Steps Off the Bus With Heavy Bags and Heads Home – “I’m Back!” She Calls Out as Her Family Rushes to Greet Her Saying They Felt She Was Coming. That Night, While They Sit Around the Big Family Table, a Knock at the Door Brings Unexpected Guests. Julia Looks at the Visitors and Can’t Believe Her Eyes Julia Sat Silently and a Bit Sad, Gazing Out the Window as the Bus Carried Her Away from Her Beloved Village. On Her Lap Was a Large Checkered Bag Packed with Essentials—Plus a Bundle of Warm Pasties from Grandma, Filling the Bus with the Tempting Aroma of Fresh Baking. Unable to Resist, Julia Unzipped Her Bag, Pulled Out Two Golden, Crispy Pasties, and Offered One to a Young Man Nearby Who Had Kindly Given Up His Window Seat for Her. “Want one?” she asked. “Yes, please!” he replied eagerly, swallowing hard. “I’m Julia,” she introduced herself. “And I’m Stephen! Heading off to uni?” he asked. “Yep! There’s no college or uni close to home—only tractor school, and I’m definitely not a tractor driver!” “I’m off to uni too,” sighed Stephen. “But I like the countryside.” It was a four-hour journey to the city. By the time they arrived, the two had chatted and become friends, exchanging numbers before heading their separate ways. *** The hustle of entrance exams passed swiftly—both Julia and Stephen were accepted at their chosen universities and over the moon. Worries and exam nerves were behind them; the future was full of big plans and hope. One day Stephen called Julia: “Julia, fancy celebrating our exams at a café?” Julia was delighted, not least because she liked Stephen—he was easygoing, genuine, and comfortingly familiar, so different from the city types. They met in the city centre at a quirky café called “Hippo.” They watched sightseeing boats cut across the river as tour guides bellowed into megaphones. “I wonder why this café is called Hippo?” Julia mused. Stephen laughed. “Probably because if you keep eating the cakes here, you’ll turn into one!” “Sounds about right!” Julia snorted, munching her cake. Soon “Hippo” became their regular spot, and setting up dates was: “Let’s meet at our table.” That evening, they shared their first, unforgettable kiss—tender and passionate. Time passed; Julia grew closer to Stephen than anyone else, except her parents. One day Stephen suggested, “Julia, move in with me! Let’s marry in summer.” “Is this your proposal?” Julia teased. “Sort of!” “Then I’m supposed to ask, like in that old film, remember? ‘Aren’t you worried I’ll always be in your sight?’” “Flutter around as much as you like!” Stephen grinned, twirling Julia round in the street. Julia returned to the flat she shared with friends glowing with happiness. “You’re radiating joy! Spill!” Vera, her flatmate, asked. “Oh girls, I might move in with Stephen soon!” Julia sang. “Are we invited to the wedding?” Marina cheered. “The wedding’s for summer! We’ll just live together for now.” “Don’t rush it, Julia—lots can happen before summer!” Vera warned. Julia laughed it off. “Vera, you’re such an old soul! Everyone does this now.” “I’m not old—I just don’t trust these informal arrangements. My mum’s a solicitor—I know how they end…” Vera grumped. “Alright, Vera, don’t be mad—I was kidding,” Julia soothed. *** Julia brushed off Vera’s worries as nonsense—who needs a stamp in a passport when love is so rare and true? Yet, the conversation nagged at her, making her hesitate about moving in with Stephen. Eventually, he stopped asking. One December day, Julia and her friends wandered the festive city, shivering in the sparkling snow. Spotting “Hippo,” Julia chirped, “Let’s warm up inside—Stephen and I love it here!” “Look—Stephen’s already there!” Marina remarked glumly, nodding at the window. Julia saw Stephen laughing with a younger girl across “their” table… She turned away, quietly: “I think I’ll head home.” “We’re coming too!” Vera and Marina chorused. Back at the flat, her friends tried to reassure Julia, but the way Stephen looked at the girl stuck in her mind. Their table, their café—it felt like a betrayal. Julia stopped answering Stephen’s calls and asked her friends to turn him away at home. When he finally caught her at uni he asked, “Julia, what’s wrong? Are you seeing someone else?” Julia shot him a furious look. “You’re asking? Nice job flipping it! Let go, I’m late for my exam.” And with that, she slipped into the institute, leaving Stephen baffled. *** Julia finished her exams early and went home for Christmas, sure her family’s cosy house would help her get over the hurt and betrayal. And indeed, her spirits lifted stepping off the village bus, surrounded by diamond-sparkling snow and old trees twinkling in the winter sun. Her arms full of gifts for her family, she smiled at the familiar scene—the old Christmas tree outside was even decorated, just like when she was little. “Happy Christmas!” she called, stepping inside. “Julia, darling!” her family cried, rushing to hug her. “We knew you were coming!” It was a joyful day—though winter nights arrived early, Dad cheered, “Let’s light up the tree!” That evening, as they sat at their big family table, someone knocked at the door. “Probably neighbours dropping in,” Mum shrugged, heading to answer it. But she returned not alone—she was with Father Christmas and his helper. “Stephen?” Julia gasped, peering at Father Christmas and the helper—the same young woman she’d seen at the café. “How did you find me? What is all this?” Stephen burst out laughing, the girl too. “Your friends told me where to find you. Also, let me introduce you—this is my younger sister, Irene!” “My sister?” said Stephen. “Yes, sister!” Irene confirmed. “We do look alike, if you check!” Julia felt relief flood her—she scolded herself for assuming the worst instead of simply asking. Stephen then knelt. “Since your whole family’s here, with my own kin as witness, Julia, will you marry me?” He offered her a little box with a ring. “Yes—yes, of course!” Julia cried, hugging him. “This is the best Christmas ever!” “And there’ll be lots more wonderful Christmases together—just promise we’ll talk through misunderstandings from now on!” Stephen said. “I promise!” Julia beamed.

I’ll Make a Real Man Out of Him “My grandson will NOT be left-handed,” declared Mrs. Tamara Smith indignantly. Denis turned to his mother-in-law, his eyes darkening with irritation. “And why is that so terrible? Ilya was born this way. It’s just who he is.” “Who he is!” sniffed Tamara. “It’s not some special trait, it’s a mark of underdevelopment. That’s not how things are done. For generations, the right hand is the proper hand. The left — that’s the devil’s work.” Denis nearly laughed. This was the twenty-first century, yet his mother-in-law talked as if they still lived in medieval England. “Mrs. Smith, doctors have long proven—” “I don’t need your doctors telling me what’s what,” she interrupted. “I retrained my own son, and he turned out perfectly normal! Retrain Ilya before it’s too late. You’ll thank me, just wait.” She marched out of the kitchen, leaving Denis alone with his lukewarm tea and an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. At first, Denis didn’t take it too seriously. The mother-in-law had old-fashioned ideas—what could you do? Every generation has its own bundle of prejudices. He watched as Mrs. Smith “gently” tried to correct her grandson at the table, moving his spoon from his left to his right hand, and thought: it’s harmless. Children are resilient—grandparents’ quirks can’t do real damage. Ilya had always been left-handed. Denis remembered him, just eighteen months old, always reaching for toys with his left hand. Drawing later, awkwardly, childishly—but always with his left. It felt so natural, so… right for Ilya. Just part of who he was. Like his blue eyes, or the dimple in his cheek. But to Mrs. Smith, it was a flaw—a blunder by Mother Nature that demanded fixing. Every time Ilya picked up a pencil with his left hand, his grandmother pursed her lips as if he’d done something shameful. “With your right hand, Ilya. Use your right.” “Here we go again! There have never been left-handers in our family, and there never will be.” “I trained your Uncle Simon out of it, and I’ll do the same with you.” Denis once overheard her telling Olga this “triumph.” The story of little Simon, who “started off wrong,” but whose mother took charge. Tied his hand back, watched his every move, punished him for disobedience. Now he’s a respectable man—“thanks to me.” There was such pride in her voice, such certainty in her “rightness,” it made Denis uneasy. At first, the changes in his son seemed minor. Ilya started hesitating before reaching for things. His hand would pause mid-air, as if solving a hard puzzle. Then he developed a habit of glancing around, checking: was Grandma watching? “Dad, which hand should I use?” He asked the question at dinner, staring nervously at his fork. “Whichever hand feels right to you, son.” “But Grandma says…” “Don’t listen to Grandma. Use whichever one you want.” But it no longer felt “right” to Ilya. He fumbled, dropped things, lost confidence. His once-decisive movements grew hesitant, as if he’d stopped trusting his own body. Olga saw it all. Denis noticed her biting her lip whenever her mum corrected Ilya yet again, or turned away when the lectures about “proper upbringing” began. Olga had grown up under the steamroller of her mother’s “will” and learned one thing: don’t argue. Just survive the storm. Denis tried talking to her. “Ollie, this isn’t healthy. Look at Ilya. Look at what’s happening to him.” “Mum means well…” “I don’t care what she means! Can’t you see what’s becoming of him?” Olga only shrugged and turned away—old habits of obedience beating even a mother’s instincts. The situation worsened. Mrs. Smith was now relentless—commenting on every move Ilya made. Praised him when he happened to use his right hand, made loud sighs when he didn’t. “See, Ilya, you can do it! Just try. I made your uncle a real man, and I’ll make one out of you.” Denis finally confronted his mother-in-law. With Ilya safely out of earshot, he began, “Mrs. Smith, please leave my son alone. He’s left-handed. It’s normal. Stop trying to change him.” Her reaction was explosive. “You’re telling me what to do? I raised three children! And you want to teach me?” “I’m not teaching. I’m begging—just leave my son alone.” “Your son? Isn’t he Olga’s child, too? He’s my grandson! I will not let him grow up… like that.” She almost spat the word “that”, dripping with contempt. Denis realized: this would not end peacefully. The next days settled into a cold war. Mrs. Smith ignored him, speaking only through Olga. Denis returned the favor. Olga ran between them, pale and exhausted. Ilya spent ever more time hidden on the sofa with his tablet, hoping to become invisible. Denis had an idea that Saturday morning, as Mrs. Smith performed her ritual making borscht in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the confidence of thirty years’ practice. He stood behind her. “You’re doing that wrong.” She didn’t turn around. “Excuse me?” “You’re supposed to slice it thinner. And not across the grain—along it.” She snorted and kept chopping. “I’m serious. No one does it like that. That’s not the correct way.” “I’ve made borscht for thirty years.” “And you’ve done it wrong for thirty years. Let me show you.” He reached for the knife. She pulled back. “Are you crazy?” “No. I just want you to get it right. Look, too much water. Too high a flame. And you’re adding the beetroot wrong.” “That’s how I’ve always done it!” “That’s not a reason. Time to relearn. Let’s start over.” Mrs. Smith froze, knife raised. Her face was a picture of pure disbelief. “What are you on about?” “The same thing you tell Ilya every day. ‘Relearn. This is wrong. That’s not the way. Use a different hand.’” “That’s completely different!” “Really? Not to me.” She put the knife down, cheeks flushed with anger. “You compare my cooking to… He’s just a boy, he can change!” “And you’re an adult set in your ways—you’ll never change, right? So what gives you the right to force him?” She pressed her lips together, eyes bright with fury. “How dare you? I raised three children! Simon, too—I retrained him. Look at him now!” “Is he happy? Really confident?” Silence. Denis knew he’d hit a nerve. Simon—Olga’s older brother—lived far away and only called Mrs. Smith twice a year. “I only wanted the best,” her voice trembled. “I know. But your ‘best’ means ‘my way or the highway.’ Ilya is his own person—as real as you or me. And I won’t let you crush that.” “You’re not going to teach me!” “I will, if you don’t stop. I’ll criticize your every move—every gesture, every habit. Let’s see how long you last.” They stood off—son-in-law and mother-in-law—angry, exhausted, unyielding. “That’s petty, mean-spirited,” Mrs. Smith hissed. “Any other way, you just don’t get it.” Something in her seemed to collapse then. Her certainty cracked. Suddenly, Tamara Smith looked older, smaller, deeply vulnerable. “I only ever did it out of love…” she trailed off. “I know. But this isn’t love the way Ilya needs it. If you can’t stop, you won’t see your grandson here again.” The borscht on the stove began to boil over. No one moved. That evening, after Mrs. Smith retreated to her room, Olga sat next to Denis, silent, leaning her head on his shoulder. “No one protected me as a child,” she whispered. “Mum always knew best. Always. I just… learned to live with it.” Denis held her close. “In this family, your mother doesn’t get to set the rules anymore. Not for any of us.” Olga nodded, squeezing his hand in gratitude. From the children’s room came the faint sound of pencil moving across paper. Ilya was drawing. With his left hand. No one told him he was wrong—ever again.