“I never signed up to be a stepmother—this wasn’t my life, not my choice.”
When I met Simon, he laid it all out straightaway: three children from his first marriage, child support, lavish gifts for the kids, plans to buy each of them a flat. I was twenty-seven; he was thirty-seven. I knew what I was getting into. In fact, I was relieved he wouldn’t pressure me into having children—I’d always considered myself happily child-free. A deliberate, unwavering choice. Freedom. Travel. Work. My own time.
At first, it was even pleasant. Simon rented a spacious house just outside Brighton, made good money. The kids were polite, well-mannered—they visited on weekends, stayed over. I got on with them. We watched films together, cooked meals, shared laughs. They respected me. The role of *fun weekend aunt* suited me fine. No one stepped on anyone’s toes.
That lasted two years. Then—it all fell apart.
The eldest, Jake, turned fourteen, clashed with his mother, and practically fled to our doorstep. Simon, as usual, was gone from dawn till dusk for work, leaving me alone with a sulking teenager. Slamming doors. Music blasting through headphones. Defiant words. A stranger in my own home, acting like I meant nothing—and he was right. I *was* nothing to him.
Three months later, Simon’s ex-wife *seamlessly* dumped the younger two with us. *Just temporarily*, she said—she’d landed a high-profile job in Manchester, needed time to settle in, *promised* she’d take them back soon. A year later, *temporary* still hasn’t ended. No calls. No hints she even remembers they exist.
Now my house is full of strange children. Jake ignores me, snaps orders like I’m hired help. The middle one, Ellie, can’t keep up with school—I spend every evening bent over textbooks with her. The youngest, Oliver, is sweet but needs ferrying to football practice, chess club, maths competitions. It all lands on *me*.
I never agreed to this. I don’t want to be nanny, tutor, chauffeur, and cook rolled into one. My work—gone. I was a freelancer, had regular clients, deadlines, an income. Now? Silence. People stopped waiting. Every day is a blur of packed lunches, permission slips, and lost tempers. Where do *I* fit in?
I tried talking to Simon. Calmly. Like adults. He nods, but it’s always the same: *”They’re my kids. I can’t throw them out.”* And then, *”You understand, don’t you? None of this is their fault.”* No, it’s not. But it’s not *mine*, either. I didn’t birth them. I never promised to be their mother. I won’t set myself on fire to keep someone else warm.
Lately, I’ve realised there’s only one way out. Divorce. Freedom. I’m tired of being collateral damage in someone else’s mistakes. I’m not cruel—just a woman who wants her own life, not this borrowed one. And if he can’t see that? Then we were never speaking the same language to begin with.
