**Diary Entry**
I never signed up to be a stepmother—this wasn’t my life, not my choice.
When I met James, he was upfront from the start: three kids from his first marriage, child support payments, lavish gifts for them, and plans to buy each a flat one day. I was twenty-seven; he was thirty-seven. I knew what I was getting into. In fact, I didn’t mind that he wouldn’t pressure me into having children—I’d always considered myself childfree by choice. A deliberate, clear decision. Freedom, travel, my career, my own time.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. James rented a spacious house outside Oxford, earned well, and the kids—polite, well-mannered—visited on weekends, sometimes staying over. I got on with them well enough. We’d watch films, cook together, and they treated me with respect. Playing the role of “nice weekend aunt” suited me fine. No one stepped on anyone’s toes.
That lasted two years. Then… everything fell apart. His eldest turned fourteen, got into a row with his mum, and practically moved in with us. James, as usual, was at work from dawn till dusk, leaving me alone with a moody teenager. Slamming doors, blaring music, snapped replies. A stranger’s child in my home, acting like I didn’t matter—and he wasn’t wrong, because I didn’t.
Three months later, his ex-wife “temporarily” sent the younger ones too. Claimed she was relocating to Manchester for a big promotion, needed time to settle, and would take them back soon. Except “temporary” has now stretched to a year. Still no calls, no hints she’s coming for them.
Now my house is home to three children who aren’t mine. The eldest ignores me, defies me like I’m hired help. The middle one struggles in school, so I spend evenings helping with homework. The youngest is the easiest, but still needs ferrying to clubs, matches, and competitions. And all of it—falls on me.
I didn’t agree to this. I never wanted to be a nanny, tutor, chauffeur, and cook rolled into one. My work’s fallen apart. I was a freelancer with steady clients, projects, an income. Now? Silence. People stopped waiting—I’m always tied up with the kids. My days are just running errands, chores. Where am I in all of this?
I’ve tried talking to James. Calmly, rationally. He nods but says the same thing: “They’re my kids—I can’t just turn them away.” Then adds, “You understand, they’ve done nothing wrong…” No, they haven’t. But neither have I. I didn’t give birth to 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 her own life, not one forced upon her. And if he can’t see that—then we were never speaking the same language to begin with.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t mean erasing yourself for someone else’s unfinished business.
