Why are my parents so angry

"You are not my mother!" - My life as a wicked stepmother

Our author loves a man with children. Of course they should be fine. But who cares about their feelings?

You didn't think about it that much. About these children. His children. The model. Just did it. Made what you felt like. And you felt: in love. And you were a stepmother.

At some point - you were already really in it - you thought about it after all. And you know today: Anyone who loves a man with children as a childless woman is doing himself a disservice. "You can't say that like that," you hear the voices whisper. You can't either, that's why there is no name here.

The wars of separation

And since for you as a non-mother-but-stepmother it is understandable, but terrible, that it is always about the children, it doesn't do that here. This is all about you. This is about the hole you dig yourself because you love a man with children. It can be cozy, this hole. Until the walls collapse. And they will. Then you lie there, under all the rubble of a (his) lived life that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Under all the wars of separation that keep wafting and slowly cutting you apart. The wars between father and child, child and child, father and mother, mother and child. Between divorce agreements, alimony disputes and puberty. And alone. Just an extra on the battlefield that's a broken family. Because: You are not family. Family are the others.

It's hard to watch

Also the ex-wife, against whom you will never say anything in front of the children. But: She brings up the children who also live in your house. You don't like the upbringing? What do you do? Don't educate yourself. Are not your children. So you take it, watch them grow And you know: they will never be yours. It's hard to watch. So at some point there will be rules in your house after all. And you're the wicked stepmother.

The kids don't care if you're there or not

Of course you don't complain about a swan song for “patchwork”. Because you are not kidding yourself, you would take the man again and again - with his children. But you would have liked to have known a few things beforehand: That you will never love your children as everyone always says that you love children. Doesn't work, they're not yours. But nobody told you. Otherwise you would have spared yourself thinking about what a bad person you are because you can't do the thing with unconditional love. That his children don't care if you are there. That they always come for him, never for you. You are very happy for him. Really and honestly. But it tears up your own heart that shows its ugly side and screams: I want too! That you sometimes have to cry like a petulant little child because you long for a love that these children cannot give: the love for a mother. That you will be ashamed to think that way. That the children will like you, but something will always be missing. That stupid, invisible bond called family. That you do and do and invest - your time, your feelings, your money - and get nothing. “Parents can do that too,” hiss the voices who don't want to hear your whining. Might be. But to be clear: Parents must. You must not. But do it anyway.

You feel all of this, but you don't say it. You can't. Should?