“I never signed up to be a stepmother—this wasn’t my life, not my choice.”
When I first met Simon, he laid it all out bluntly: three kids from his previous marriage, child support, lavish gifts for them, plans to buy each a flat. I was twenty-seven, he was thirty-seven. I knew what I was stepping into. In fact, I was relieved he wouldn’t pressure me about having my own—I’d always seen myself as someone who simply didn’t want children. Childfree by choice. A life of freedom, travel, work, my own time.
At first, it was fine. Simon rented a spacious house outside Oxford, earned well. The kids were polite, well-mannered, visiting on weekends, staying over. I got on with them—movie nights, baking, mutual respect. The role of “fun weekend aunt” suited me. No one stepped on anyone’s toes.
That lasted two years. Then… it all unravelled. The eldest turned fourteen, clashed with his mum, and bolted to our place. Simon, as ever, was at work dawn till dusk, leaving me alone with a sulking teen. Slamming doors, blaring music, muttered insults. A stranger in my home, acting like I meant nothing—because I didn’t.
Three months later, Simon’s ex “temporarily” dumped the younger two on us. New job in Manchester, high-up position, she’d fetch them once settled. Except “temporary” stretched into a year. Still no calls, no hint she’d take them back.
Now, three strangers live in my house. The eldest ignores me, rebels like I’m hired help. The middle one can’t keep up at school—every evening, it’s tutoring. The youngest is sweet but needs ferrying to clubs, matches, competitions. All of it falls to me.
I didn’t agree to this. I never wanted to be nanny, tutor, chauffeur, and cook rolled into one. My work’s crumbling—freelance clients gave up waiting. Days blur into chores, errands, someone else’s chaos. Where am *I* in this?
I tried talking to Simon. Calmly, like adults. He nods but says the same: “They’re my kids. I can’t toss them out.” Adds: “You understand—they’re innocent.” Yes, they are. But so am *I*. I didn’t birth them. I never promised to be their mum. I won’t burn my life for someone else’s choices.
Lately, I see only one way out: divorce. Just freedom. I’m tired of being hostage to a family I didn’t make, mistakes I didn’t commit. I’m not cruel. Just a person who wants her own life, not this borrowed one. If he can’t grasp that—we were never speaking the same language.
