“‘Anna is still young—she’ll have another!’ she promised. In the end, nobody wanted the child.”
Anna and Robert grew up together in a quiet English town, attended the same school, and later moved to London in search of jobs and a new life. When Anna became pregnant, Robert left, unprepared for fatherhood. Alone, Anna returned home to raise her baby girl, while Robert’s mother—a well-known figure in the community—spread rumours that the child was not her grandchild, claiming the baby’s features didn’t match the family and insisting Anna was lying.
Exhausted by the gossip, Anna agreed to a paternity test, which proved Robert was indeed the father. Instantly, his mother welcomed Anna and the baby, showering them with expensive gifts. But soon, she demanded visitation, threatening legal action when Anna refused to part with her young daughter. Claiming her influence would win her custody, she pressured Anna to give up the child, arguing Anna was young and could become a mother again. The custody battle lasted years.
Eventually, when Robert started a new family, his mother lost interest in Anna’s daughter. Anna built a new life in London, leaving her daughter in her mother’s care, but neither Robert’s family nor Anna’s new husband wanted the responsibility. As Anna’s mother grew ill, the once fiercely sought-after child seemed to matter to no one. Meeting Anna’s mother, Robert’s mother would now say: “If you’d just let me raise the girl, she would be speaking French by now! Her mother abandoned her—what will become of her?” Meanwhile, Robert never showed any interest.
The girl, for whom everyone once fought, ended up with no one truly wanting her. No one knows what her future will hold. Emma is still young, shell have more children! she insisted. In the end, nobody seemed to want the child at all.
You should have paid for my renovations instead of swanning off on holiday! My mother-in-law is firmly
I’m 41 and the house I live in once belonged to my grandparents. After they passed, my mum stayed here, and when she was gone, the home was left in my name. It’s always been a quiet, tidy, and peaceful place. I work all day and come home alone. Never did I imagine that all of this could be turned upside down by a decision I made “just to help someone.”
Two years ago, a distant cousin rang me in tears. She was splitting up, had a little boy, and nowhere else to go. She asked if she could stay with me “just for a few months” until she got on her feet. I agreed—she was family, and I thought it wouldn’t really affect me. At first, it was fine—she took one room, chipped in a bit towards bills, headed out early for work. Her son stayed with a neighbour during the day. Everything was OK.
After three months she quit her job, saying it was temporary and that she was looking for something better. She started staying home all day. The little boy didn’t go to the neighbour anymore—he was always here. The house began to change: toys everywhere, noise, unexpected guests. I’d come home exhausted only to find strangers sitting in my living room. When I asked her to give me a heads-up, she said I was overreacting and that “this is her home too, now.”
Soon she stopped contributing to bills—first, she said, she couldn’t manage, then she’d “catch up later.” I paid for everything: bills, food, repairs. One day I came back to find she’d rearranged all the furniture to make it “cosier”—without asking. When I protested, she was offended and said I was cold and didn’t know what it meant to live as a family.
It got even more tense when she started inviting her ex round—the very man she claimed she was escaping. He’d come by in the evening, stay the night, use the bathroom, eat our food. One day I caught him coming out of my room, having “just grabbed his jacket” without asking. That’s when I said things couldn’t go on like this—there had to be boundaries. She started crying, shouting, reminding me I took her in when she had nowhere to go.
Six months ago, I tried to set a deadline for her to move out. She said she couldn’t—she had no money, her son was at school nearby, and how could I throw her out? Now I feel trapped. My home isn’t mine any more. I sneak in quietly so I don’t wake the child, eat dinner in my room to avoid arguments, and spend more time outside than in.
I still live here, but it no longer feels like home. She acts like she owns the place—I pay for everything, yet I’m called selfish if I ask for some order. I really need advice. So, Im 41 and the house I live in used to belong to my nan and granddad. When they passed, my mum stayed
The boy woke to the sounds of his mother groaning. He padded softly to her bedside. Mum, are you in pain?
Id been with my girlfriend for five years. Because of work, we lived in different citiesme in Manchester
You know, sometimes I just need to get this off my chesteveryone always says family pulls together, but
I’m 46, and from the outside, anyone looking at my life would say everything is just fine. I got married young—at 24—to a hardworking, reliable man. Had two children in quick succession—at 26 and 28. I left university because schedules didn’t match, the kids were small, and “there would be time later.” There were never any big arguments or drama. Everything went the way it “should.”
For years, my daily routine stayed the same. I’d get up before everyone, make breakfast, leave the house tidy, then head to work. I came home on time, finished chores, cooked, washed, tidied up. Weekends were for family gatherings, birthday parties, obligations. I was always there, always responsible. If something needed doing, I sorted it out. If someone needed something, I provided it. I never asked myself if I wanted anything different.
My husband was never a bad man. We had dinner, watched TV, went to bed. He wasn’t particularly affectionate, nor was he cold. He didn’t want much, but didn’t complain either. Our conversations revolved around bills, kids, and chores.
Then, on an ordinary Tuesday, I sat in the living room in silence and realised I had nothing to do—not because everything was fine, but because at that moment, no one needed me. I looked around and understood that, for years, I’d held this home together, yet now had no idea what to do with myself in it.
That day, I opened a drawer of old papers and found unused diplomas, unfinished courses, notebook ideas, projects left “for later.” I looked through photos from when I was young—before I was a wife, before I was a mum, before I became the fixer of everything. I didn’t feel nostalgic. I felt something worse: the sense that I’d achieved everything without asking myself if it’s what I wanted.
I began to notice things I always accepted as normal. No one asked how I was. Even when I came home exhausted, I was the one to solve things. If my husband didn’t want to go to a family gathering, that was fine, but if I didn’t want to go, it was still expected that I would. My opinion existed, but didn’t hold much weight. There were no rows or drama, but there was also no space for me.
One night at dinner, I mentioned wanting to resume my studies or try something different. My husband looked puzzled and said, “Why now?” It wasn’t said unkindly. He just couldn’t understand why something that had always worked needed to change. The children said nothing. Nobody argued. No one forbade me. Yet I saw that my role was so clearly set that stepping outside it was uncomfortable.
I’m still married. I haven’t left, packed my bags, or made drastic decisions. But I’m no longer fooling myself. I know now that for over twenty years, I’ve lived to keep a structure going where I was needed, but never the main character.
How do you rebuild yourself after something like that? Im 46 years old, and from the outside, youd think theres nothing amiss in my life. I married young at
So, picture this: Emma walked out of the hospital with her newborn son, hoping for some kind of miracle.
My sister-in-law had been off on holiday at a seaside resort while we slogged through renovations, and
I’m 50, and a year ago my wife left home with the kids while I was away—when I came back, the house was empty. A few weeks ago, I got a court order for child support, and now the payments are taken straight from my wages—no choice, no negotiation, no delay, the money just goes. I won’t pretend to be a saint: I cheated, more than once. Never fully hid it, but never truly admitted it. She accused me, I claimed she was seeing things. I also had a nasty temper—shouting, snapping, throwing things, ruling the house with my voice. I never hit them, but I scared them, and my kids learned to fear me. Coming home, they’d go silent; if I raised my voice, they’d retreat to their rooms. My wife walked on eggshells, careful with every word, never arguing back. I saw it as respect—now I know it was fear. Back then, I didn’t care—I was the breadwinner, the boss, the one making the rules. When she left, I felt betrayed, thought she’d come crawling back, so I refused to pay a penny—not because I couldn’t, but out of spite. I told her if she wanted money, she should come home, I wouldn’t support anyone living away. But she didn’t return; she went straight to a solicitor, filed all the paperwork, laid out every detail, and in no time the judge ordered automatic deductions. Now my wage is slashed before I even see it. There’s nothing to hide, nowhere to run—the money is gone before I touch it. Now I have no wife, no kids at home. I rarely see them, and when I do, they keep their distance. They say nothing. I’m no longer wanted. Financially, I’m more cornered than ever—rent, child support, debts, and there’s barely anything left for me. Sometimes I’m angry. Other times, I’m ashamed. My sister told me I brought it all on myself. I’m fifty years old, and about a year ago, my wife walked out with the children. She left while
