**Diary Entry**
When I married James, I knew he had a daughter from his first marriage. His ex, Emily, walked out on the child six years ago—packed her bags and moved to France with some new bloke, starting over without a second thought. Since then, she’s had two more kids, calls her eldest maybe twice a month over video, and only bothers with birthday presents. I’ve seen the way the girl stares at her phone, hoping her mum will say, “Come live with me.” But she never has. Not once. She’s erased her firstborn like she was never there.
At first, the girl stayed with James’s mum, but she couldn’t handle it—the schoolwork, the tantrums, the endless drama. So she sent her back to her father. James brought her home, looked me in the eye, and said quietly, “Charlotte’s staying with us. For good.”
I tried. God knows I did. Bought her clothes, made her favourite meals, picked her up from school, talked to her like a friend. But she shut me out completely. Like I was nothing. Worse—like I was an intruder. She doesn’t just ignore me; she makes sure I know I don’t matter.
Three years later, she’s twelve. Still here. Still acting like this house belongs to her, not me and James. Every night, it’s the same: “Aunt Lucy made me clean my room,” “Aunt Lucy won’t buy me what I want.” Then James’s mum calls, scolding me for “not caring enough” and saying I “should learn how to be a mother” before my own baby comes. Funny how she never offers to take Charlotte off my hands, even for an hour when I’ve got work or a doctor’s appointment.
I’m exhausted. Between work, the house, cooking, and now the pregnancy, I’m stretched thin. James isn’t on her side, exactly, but he still asks me to be softer, more patient. And I just—can’t. That girl grates on me like nothing else. She’s messy, rude, never says thank you, never listens. Always unhappy. She isn’t mine, and I’ve stopped pretending otherwise.
Sometimes, I sit at the kitchen table late at night, thinking, *What if I’d said no? What if I’d stood my ground?* But it’s too late now. I won’t leave James—we’ve got our own child on the way. And though it sounds selfish, I keep hoping Charlotte will decide to go back to her gran. That she’ll say, “I’d rather live with Grandma.” I won’t beg her to stay. I won’t cry.
I just want peace. No more fighting for a place in my own home. No more walking on eggshells. I want my baby to grow up happy, not in the middle of this storm. Maybe this is the only way to keep my family together—and keep myself sane.
