When I married William, I knew he had a daughter from his first marriage. Emily, his former wife, had abandoned the child six years prior—packed her things and left for France with some new beau, starting afresh. In that time, she’d had two more children, remembered her eldest only twice a month over a video call, and sent gifts solely for holidays. I saw how the girl longed for her mother, how she’d stare at the phone screen, hoping to hear, “Come live with me.” But the woman never invited her, never once visited. She’d simply erased her daughter from her life.
At first, the girl lived with William’s mother, Margaret. But she tired quickly, struggling with schoolwork, tantrums, and moods. Soon enough, she sent the granddaughter back to her father. William brought her home, met my gaze, and said quietly, “Charlotte will stay with us. For good.”
I truly tried to be a good stepmother. I bought her clothes, cooked her favorite meals, collected her from school, spoke to her heart-to-heart. I wanted to be a friend. But the girl shut me out. It was as if she’d built a wall between us and made no effort to cross it. She didn’t just ignore me—she made it clear I meant nothing in her world.
Three years passed. Now the girl is twelve. And still, she lives with us, acting as if this were her home and not ours with William. Every evening, she whinges to her father: “Aunt Grace made me tidy up after myself,” or “Aunt Grace didn’t buy me what I wanted.” Then Margaret rings me, scolding that I “don’t pay enough attention” and that I’ll “learn motherhood soon enough when my own child comes.” Yet she herself won’t lift a finger to help—not even for an hour when I must rush to the doctor or work.
It exhausts me. I work, keep house, cook, and now I’m expecting besides. William, though he doesn’t side with his daughter outright, still urges me to be gentler, more patient. But I can’t anymore. The girl has become nothing but a thorn in my side—messy, rude, ungrateful, disobedient, forever dissatisfied. She isn’t mine, and I no longer pretend otherwise, even to myself.
Sometimes I sit at the kitchen table late at night, thinking, “If I’d refused to take her in then… If I’d stood my ground…” But it’s too late now. I can’t leave William—we’ll soon have a child together. And selfish as it may sound, I often wish 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 weep.
I just want peace. Without the endless reproaches, without fighting for my place in this house. I want my child to grow up loved and content, not in constant strife. Perhaps this is my only chance to keep my family whole—and not lose myself in the process.
