**Diary Entry – 12th March**
I never signed up to be a stepmother—this wasn’t my life, not my choice.
When I met Richard, he laid it all out straightaway: three kids from his first 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 getting into. In fact, I liked that he wouldn’t pressure me into having children—I’ve always considered myself one of those who consciously choose not to be parents. Child-free by design. A free life, the ability to travel, work, my own time.
At first, it was even alright. Richard rented a spacious house near Reading, earned well. The kids—polite, well-mannered—came over on weekends, stayed the night. I got on with them; we watched films together, cooked meals, and they treated me with respect. The role of “nice aunt on weekends” suited me. No one got in anyone’s way.
That lasted two years. Then… everything fell apart. The eldest, Oliver, turned fourteen, clashed with his mother, and practically fled to us. Richard, as usual, worked dawn till dusk, leaving me alone with a rebellious teen. Slamming doors, blasting music through headphones, snapping back at every word. A stranger appeared in my home, acting like I was nothing to him—and he was right, because I *was* nothing to him.
Three months later, Richard’s ex “temporarily” sent the younger two as well. She was moving to Edinburgh for a new job, a promotion—just needed to settle in before taking them back. Except “temporary” stretched into a year. The kids are still here. No calls, no hints of her reclaiming them.
Now my house is home to three strangers. Oliver ignores me, defies me like I’m hired help. Ethan struggles with schoolwork, needing me to sit with him every evening. The youngest, Lily, is the easiest, but even she needs shuttling to clubs, competitions, extracurriculars. All of it falls on me.
I never agreed to this. I didn’t want to be a nanny, tutor, chauffeur, and cook rolled into one. I’ve no time for work. I used to freelance—steady clients, projects, income. Now? Silence. People stopped waiting; I’m always tied up with the kids. My days are a blur of errands and chores. Where am I in all this?
I tried talking to Richard. Calmly, like adults. He nods but says the same thing: “They’re my kids. I can’t toss them out.” Then adds, “You understand—they’ve done nothing wrong.” True, they haven’t. But neither have I. I didn’t birth them. I never promised to be their mother. I won’t sacrifice my life for someone else’s choices.
Lately, I’ve realised there’s only one way out. Divorce. Freedom. I’m tired of being trapped in someone else’s family, someone else’s mistakes. I’m not cruel—just a person who wants to live her own life, not one forced upon her. If he can’t see that, we were never speaking the same language to begin with.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t enough when your life becomes collateral for a past you didn’t choose.
