How can I make my husband’s daughter go live with her grandmother? I can’t stand his child.
I married a man with a daughter from his first marriage. Her mother abandoned her and vanished abroad with a new lover, leaving the girl with my husband. Now I’m trapped in a nightmare, trying to coexist with this stranger’s child in our little home in Whitstable. I dreamed of a happy family, but instead, I got a spoiled, ill-mannered brat who poisons my life. Now that I’m pregnant, I need her gone—sent off to her grandmother’s. But how do I make her want to leave?
When Anthony and I first started dating, his daughter, Poppy, mostly lived with her gran. I rarely saw her and foolishly thought I could accept her as just another part of his past. After the wedding, everything changed. His mother announced she couldn’t handle the girl anymore and moved Poppy in with us. I tried to connect with her, but every effort shattered against her cold indifference and spite. She ignores me as if I don’t exist—worse, she acts like she owns the place, scattering her mess everywhere and running to her father or gran with complaints at every turn.
Every day, I get lectured by my mother-in-law: “Be patient, Emily, find a way through!” Anthony pleads for leniency, but why should I humour a twelve-year-old who sneers in my face? She isn’t mine, and I refuse to be her unpaid nanny. My own baby is coming soon, and I won’t tolerate her games. Why does no one discipline her, rein her in? Anthony and his mum spoil her rotten, excusing her rudeness and laziness. If this continues, she’ll grow into a selfish little monster.
Poppy is a slob. She leaves dishes crusted, clothes strewn about—and guess who cleans it up? Me. Her behaviour appalls me: sly, manipulative, doing everything to push me to my limit. Anthony works late, so it’s often just us two. She’s not a toddler, yet he and his mother insist she can’t be left alone. Why must I sacrifice my sanity and time? I want to work, to rest, to live my life!
His mother drops by for an hour, cooing over Poppy before turning on me: “Why don’t you play with her? Guide her?” She truly believes I must mother his child. Their demands choke me. If they didn’t expect the impossible, maybe I’d endure it. But now I regret ever tying myself to a man with baggage. Poppy will never be family, and I won’t pretend otherwise.
Pregnancy twists the knife. I crave peace, to prepare for my own child—not waste energy on someone else’s. Poppy is Anthony’s past, not my burden. How do I make her leave without tearing us apart? I’m at my breaking point. I need a way out.
