My name is Mary, and I am thirty years old. I hold a position as an employee in an identification company. Until recently, I was convinced that the life I shared with my husband, Marcus, and his daughter Anna, represented the “new family” I had long desired.
Marcus is nine years my senior. When we met, he was divorced and had been raising his daughter alone after his ex-wife relinquished custody and disappeared. Back then, Anna was twelve, stylish, bright-eyed, and polite when Marcus introduced her to me for the first time.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Anna. Thank you for always taking care of Dad,” she said cheerfully.
Her happiness eased my anxious hands. I had prepared myself for rejection, yet she seemed genuinely pleased that I was there.
I thought: She had grown up motherless. Perhaps I could be that person for her.
A year later, Marcus proposed marriage. My parents hesitated—what parent wouldn’t when their child’s partner already had a daughter? However, swayed by my resolve, they eventually gave their blessing. I married Marcus and moved into the apartment he shared with Anna.
Initially, everything went smoothly. Anna even called me “Mom.” Marcus showed tenderness; we dined and watched silly shows together. It felt like a fairy tale unfolding effortlessly.
However, as months passed, subtle cracks started to emerge.
One evening after dinner, Anna placed her plate on the table and lounged on the couch scrolling through her phone.
“Anna, please clear your plate after eating. You’re old enough,” I urged.
She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, really? Can’t you do it, Mom?”
I stood my ground. “No. You’re in middle school now. You must learn to take care of yourself.”
“Stop nagging! You’re so annoying,” she snapped.
Marcus sided with her. “Don’t be so harsh, Mary. She’s still a child. You should clean up.”
I felt my face flush. “I’m not reprimanding her because she’s my stepdaughter. I want her to grow up.”
But the seed of defiance was planted. From then on, Anna opposed every minor request. Marcus indulged her. Household chores, shopping, cleaning—little by little, they became my sole responsibility.
When I tried reasoning—reminding them we were a family and should share duties—Marcus dismissed me. “Housework is women’s work,” he said. Anna mocked me, “You’re such a cold mother.”
Despite working full-time, I was treated like a servant.
The school issue followed. At fourteen, Anna needed to prepare for high school entrance exams. Though intelligent, she was lazy. She desired admission to a prestigious private school but spent afternoons on her phone.
“Anna, you must study. High school will be tougher,” I insisted.
She smirked, “Shut up. You’re not my real mother.”
Marcus intervened, “Don’t stress her. She’ll manage. She’s reliable.”
We quarreled harshly. The more I insisted, the colder Marcus became. Sometimes he returned home late, murmuring about “work.” I suspected avoidance.
The atmosphere grew tense. Divorce crossed my mind, yet I hesitated—after convincing my parents, would I disappoint them now?
Then, one morning, everything shifted.
“Good morning, Anna. Breakfast is ready.” I called.
She walked past without a word.
“Anna?” No response.
That evening, I approached Marcus. “Hey, I want to discuss something about Anna—”
Silence. He didn’t even turn to look.
Days passed with cold neglect. Greetings, questions, attempts at conversation—all ignored. It was as if I had become invisible. They spoke to each other, but whenever I spoke, their eyes turned glassy.
I cooked, cleaned, and washed without so much as a “thank you.” Weekends were spent with them going out together, leaving me alone in the apartment I once regarded as home.
Desperate, I tried more—Anna’s favorite curry, Marcus’s preferred beer chilled. Still, silence enveloped me like walls closing in.
Tears flowed under showers where they couldn’t hear. Why?
The answer came by accident.
One evening, arriving home early, I overheard voices through the slightly open living room door.
Anna giggled, “Mom is so naive. Lol. Ignoring her is a huge success. She stays quiet and does everything.”
Marcus laughed, “Yeah. She stopped nagging and still pays all the bills. She’s become a useful housemaid.”
Anna declared, “From now on, I’ll need more money for high school. Mom can just work more! I’m young; I don’t have to do chores. Perfect. Let’s keep ignoring her.”
My heart pounded. My husband and stepdaughter laughed together at how easily they had reduced me to a servant.
Heat surged in my chest. I bit my lip until it bled.
I would never forgive them.
The next morning, I tried once more: “Good morning.”
Ignored. Anna even clicked her tongue.
After they left, I packed quietly. Took essentials, closed the door behind me, and left without a note.
I went to my parents. Fearing their disappointment, I was met instead with my mother holding my hand, eyes moist. “You can stay as long as you want. It must have been so hard.”
My father spoke bluntly, “You did your best. That’s enough.”
Months of restrained tears flooded out. For the first time in two years, I felt truly seen.
A few days later, Marcus called. Against my judgment, I answered.
“Where the hell are you?” he shouted. “How dare you leave? You’re a mother, aren’t you ashamed? Come back now!”
I moved the phone away, then back. “No, Marcus. I’m not coming back. I want a divorce.”
“What nonsense? Stop being childish because we ignored you a bit! We’re not divorcing.”
He panicked—without me, there was no housekeeper.
Quietly, I said, “Let’s divorce. Because you are cheating on me, aren’t you?”
Silence. Then, “W-what are you saying?”
But I knew. The mysterious call I received came from Marcus’s mistress’s husband. Marcus wasn’t working late; he dined with her and even took Anna sometimes, spinning lies. I once overheard Anna sigh, “Dad’s mistress is so beautiful. I wish she were my mother.”
I stabbed with words. “I’ll seek support payments. Also, the apartment isn’t yours; it’s mine. My father bought it before we married, and it’s under my name. I’ve already moved my furniture to a new place and put it on the market. Your and Anna’s things? I’ve sent them to your parents’ home. Good luck.”
The line went silent.
Then Marcus’s voice, trembling: “Mary, please. I’m sorry. I only love you. Forgive me.”
His words slid off me like water.
“You and Anna didn’t want a wife or mother. You wanted a housemaid. It’s over.”
I hung up.
My husband and stepdaughter ignored me forever, so I left quietly. Then, panic set in…
Part Two
The divorce proceeded faster than I imagined once the lawyer got involved. The facts were clear: Marcus’s affair, his financial irresponsibility, his treatment of me. The mistress’s husband filed a lawsuit too. Drunk on their small “love story,” they suddenly found themselves buried in legal battles.
Marcus drained savings paying both my support and compensation to the mistress’s husband. That wasn’t enough. He took out loans.
Meanwhile, Anna and Marcus were evicted from my apartment, which sold within weeks. I used the money to buy a modest flat near work—quiet, sunny, filled only with things I chose.
Marcus and Anna ended up in a shabby, cheap apartment across town.
At first, I felt little—only relief. But soon, the calls began.
“Mary, please. Let’s reconcile. Anna wants to apologize too.”
Yet his voice carried desperation, not affection. He sought the stability I once provided—money, chores, silence.
“No,” I said firmly. “You told me, without me, I was nothing. Now see, without me, you are nothing.”
I hung up.
Months passed.
Bits and pieces reached me through acquaintances: Marcus’s debts grew. Anna enrolled in a public school instead of the prestigious private school she boasted about. Initially bossy, her arrogance alienated friends. She spent more time at home. Neighbors complained about unpleasant odors from their apartment.
One day Marcus called again, voice broken.
“Mary, please. I can’t take it. Anna won’t leave her room. She yells at me. The house is dirty. They threaten to evict us. Please… come back. For Anna’s sake, if not mine.”
A pang of sadness struck me. I once wished to be Anna’s mother. I had tried.
But then I recalled her words: “Ignoring her is a huge success. Mom is so naive.”
She mocked me with her father, treating me like trash.
“No,” I replied. “You created this situation yourselves. Live with it.”
“Mary—”
I hung up again.
Divorce was finalized. Compensation paid. Documents signed.
I blocked Marcus’s number and immersed myself in work. Colleagues noticed a change—I laughed more and appeared healthier. At home, I decorated my apartment with flowers and photos of my parents—those who stood by me when my so-called family betrayed me.
I wasn’t considering remarriage soon. I was rediscovering myself, independent of Marcus and Anna.
One evening, my father poured tea and said, “You’re stronger than you think, Mary. They underestimated you.”
I smiled. “They thought I was their servant. But I left. Now they’re the ones begging.”
Weeks later, Marcus made one last attempt. He appeared at my parents’ home, disheveled, eyes bloodshot.
“Mary, I’ll do anything. Please come back. Anna needs you.”
I looked at him long and said softly,
“I had you. I begged you to treat me like family. Instead, you and your daughter laughed at me, used me, ignored me. Now see what life is like without me.”
His lips trembled as he whispered, “You’re nothing without us.”
I stepped closer, voice steady. “No, Marcus. You’re nothing without me. Look at you. I left quietly, and now you’re the one desperate and speechless.”
He lowered his head. For the first time, he had no reply.
I turned away, closed the door, and felt the burden of thirty months of pain fall away.
Life went on. My parents welcomed me wholeheartedly. At work, I earned a promotion. I traveled with friends. Evening reading brought peace without fear of ridicule.
Marcus and Anna became whispers in the neighborhood. People said Marcus still struggled with debt. Anna, isolated and bitter, spent her days online. They reaped what they sowed.
Ultimately, I chose peace.
I no longer needed their approval or company.
I had myself, my freedom, and a future I could shape as I wished.
That was all I ever truly needed.
In conclusion, this story traces the painful unraveling of a blended family marred by neglect and betrayal, contrasted with Mary’s courageous journey towards self-respect and independence. Despite facing disregard and deceit, Mary reclaimed her identity and established a life defined by empowerment and personal fulfillment.