I sat in our cramped flat in Manchester, clutching a cold cup of tea, feeling the sting of tears in my throat. My husband, James, and I had two children together, and by all accounts, we had everything—a cosy home, a car, a steady income. Yet our happiness was crumbling because of his 17-year-old son from his first marriage, Oliver, who lived with us. He split his time between his mother’s place and ours, but lately, he’d been staying more often, turning my life into a nightmare.
Oliver was like a thorn in my side. He treated me like a maid, left messes everywhere, and rolled his eyes whenever I asked for help. Worst of all, he bullied my four-year-old son, Noah. I’d seen him cuff the boy round the head just because he’d accidentally bumped his phone. Our two-year-old, Emily, slept in our room because there was no space for her cot in our two-bedroom flat. If Oliver just moved back to his mum’s, we could finally arrange a proper nursery for the little ones.
But Oliver wasn’t going anywhere. His school was just down the road, and living with his dad was easier. He spent all day glued to his computer, shouting into his headset while Noah struggled to nap. I was exhausted—cooking, cleaning, looking after the kids—while he couldn’t lift a finger to help. His presence was like a dark cloud over our home, poisoning every day.
I’d tried talking to James, begging him to convince his son that he’d be better off with his mother. His ex, Charlotte, lived alone in a spacious three-bedroom house. Meanwhile, the four of us were squeezed into a tiny flat where every corner screamed for more space. Was that fair? If Oliver had at least been kind to my children, but he tormented them. Noah had started copying him—sassing back, throwing tantrums. I worried he’d grow up just as callous and rude.
James refused to budge. “He’s my son—I can’t just kick him out,” he’d say, over and over, blind to how much it hurt me. We fought about Oliver nearly every night. I felt like a packhorse, dragging the weight of the household while James turned a blind eye to his son’s behaviour. I was sick of his excuses, his doting love for a boy who was tearing us apart.
One day, I snapped. Oliver had shouted at Noah again, this time for spilling juice, and I lost it.
“Enough! This isn’t a hotel—show some respect! If you hate it here, go back to your mum’s!”
He just smirked. “This is my home. I’m not going anywhere.”
I shook with helpless anger. James, hearing the row, took his son’s side, accusing me of “not trying hard enough.” I stormed off to the bedroom, clutching a sobbing Emily, and let the tears fall. Why should I put up with this arrogant stranger when his mother lived in comfort without a care for him?
I started scheming ways to fix this. Maybe I could talk to Oliver myself—convince him he’d be happier at his mum’s, that the bus ride to school wasn’t so bad. But I knew he’d laugh in my face, and James would accuse me of being heartless. I dreamed of Oliver vanishing so my children could grow up in peace. But every glare, every cruel jab reminded me he was here to stay—an unwelcome guest I couldn’t shake.
Sometimes I imagined packing up the kids and leaving, letting James deal with his son alone. But I loved my husband and didn’t want to break our family. All I wanted was a calm home. Why should I suffer, watching Oliver torment my babies while his mother enjoyed her freedom? I was tired of the anger, tired of fearing for my children. I needed a way out—but where?
