Im sitting in the kitchen of our small flat in Manchester, clutching a now-cold cup of tea, the lump of anger rising in my throat. My husband, James, and I have built a family together, and on paper, everythings fine: a cosy home, a car, a steady income. But our happiness is cracking under the weight of his seventeen-year-old son from his first marriageOliverwho now lives with us more often than not. He splits his time between us and his mums, but lately, hes been settling in here like a bad habit, turning my life into a sitcom with no laughs.
Oliver is like a splinter I cant dig out. He treats me like hired help, leaves his mess everywhere, ignores dirty dishes, and answers my requests with nothing but a shrug. The worst? He picks on my four-year-old, Alfie. Ive seen him flick him on the back of the head just because the little one brushed against his phone. My daughter, Poppy, has to sleep in our room because theres no space for a proper bed in our tiny two-bed flat. If Oliver just stayed at his mums, we could finally give the kids a proper room.
But Oliver wont budge. His sixth form is just round the corner, and hed rather live with his dad. He spends his days glued to his computer, yelling into his headset while gaming, keeping Alfie awake. Im run raggedcooking, cleaning, looking after the kidsand he wont lift a finger. His presence hangs over us like a raincloud, spoiling every moment.
Ive begged James to talk some sense into him, to send him back to his mums. His ex, Emily, lives alone in a spacious three-bed house. Meanwhile, were crammed like sardines in a flat where every corner screams *”We need more space!”* Is that fair? If Oliver at least got on with the kids, but hes downright cruel. Alfies starting to copy his attitude, getting mouthy and spoiled. Im terrified hell grow up just as selfish.
James wont do a thing. *”Hes my son, I cant kick him out,”* he says, blind to how miserable I am. We fight about Oliver nearly every night. I feel like a packhorse, dragging this household along while my husband pretends not to see what his sons doing. Im sick of the excuses, this blind love for a teenager whos wrecking our family.
One day, I snapped. Oliver yelled at Alfie over a spilled drop of juice, and I lost it
*”Enough! This isnt a hotel! If youre not happy, go back to your mums!”*
He just smirked. *”This is my home too. Im not going anywhere.”*
I shook with helpless rage. James jumped in, taking his sons side, accusing me of *”not trying hard enough.”* I locked myself in the bedroom, holding a crying Poppy, letting my own tears fall. Why should I put up with this rude teenager when his mums living it up without a care?
I need a plan. Maybe talk to Oliver directly? Tell him hed be happier at his mumshe could take the bus to school. But Im afraid hell just laugh in my face, that James will call me heartless again. I dream of Oliver vanishing, of my kids growing up in peace. But every sneer, every careless shove reminds me hes here, an unwelcome guest who wont leave.
Sometimes, I imagine packing up the kids and moving in with my mum, leaving James to deal with his son alone. But I love him, and I dont want to break us apart. All I want is a quiet home. Why should I suffer, watching Oliver bully my babies while his mum enjoys her freedom? Im tired of the anger, tired of worrying. I need a way outbut I dont know where to find it.
