When I married Edward, I knew he had a daughter from his first marriage. Emily, his ex-wife, had abandoned the child six years earlier—packed her bags and left for France with some new lover, starting fresh. In that time, she’d had two more children, called her eldest twice a month over video chat, and only sent gifts on holidays. I saw how the girl ached for her mother, how she stared at the phone screen, hoping her mum would say, *”Come live with me.”* But the woman never invited her—never even visited. She’d simply erased her daughter from her life.
At first, the girl lived with her grandmother—Edward’s mother. But the woman quickly grew exhausted, unable to handle the school stress, the tantrums, the outbursts. So she sent the granddaughter back to her father. Edward brought her home, looked me in the eye, and said quietly, *”Charlotte’s staying with us. Permanently.”*
I tried, truly. I bought her clothes, cooked her favourite meals, picked her up from school, tried to talk heart-to-heart. I wanted to be a friend. But the girl shut me out. She built a wall between us—no effort, no cracks. She didn’t just ignore me—it was like she wanted me to know I meant nothing in her world.
Three years passed. Now she’s twelve. Still living with us, still acting like this is *her* flat, not ours. Every evening, she whinges to her father: *”Auntie Lily made me tidy up my mess,”* or *”Auntie Lily didn’t buy me what I wanted.”* Then my mother-in-law rings, scolding me for *”not caring enough”* and telling me *”you’ll have your own soon—best learn how to be a mother.”* But she won’t take Charlotte for even an hour when I have a doctor’s appointment or work.
It’s draining. I work, I run the house, I cook, and now I’m pregnant. Edward isn’t on her side, but he still begs me to be gentler, more patient. And I can’t. That girl has become pure irritation—messy, rude, ungrateful, never listening, never happy. She isn’t mine, and I’ve stopped pretending—even to myself.
Sometimes, I sit at the kitchen table at midnight, thinking, *”What if I’d refused to take her in? What if I’d stood my ground?”* But it’s too late now. I can’t leave Edward—we’re having a child together. And as selfish as it sounds, I keep wishing his daughter would *choose* to go back to her grandmother. To say, *”I’d rather live with Gran.”* I wouldn’t beg her to stay. I wouldn’t cry.
I just want peace—no more guilt, no more fighting for my place here. I want my child to grow up loved, not trapped in this endless tension. Maybe this is the only way to keep my family—and myself—from breaking.
