Part One
My name is Mary. At thirty years old, I work at an identity verification company. Until recently, I was convinced that my life with my husband Marcus and his daughter Anna was the “new family” I had always longed for.
Marcus is nine years older than me. When we met, he was divorced and raising his daughter alone after his ex-wife abandoned custody and disappeared. Anna was twelve at the time — stylish, bright-eyed, and very polite when Marcus first introduced her to me.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Anna. Thanks for taking care of Dad.”
Her cheerful demeanor immediately calmed my trembling hands. I had braced myself for rejection, but she genuinely seemed glad I was there.
I thought to myself, having grown up without a mother, maybe I could fill that role for her.
About a year later, Marcus proposed. My parents hesitated — as any would, given he already had a child — but after seeing my resolve, they gave their blessing. I married Marcus and moved into the apartment he shared with Anna.
Initially, everything flowed smoothly. Anna even called me “Mom.” Marcus was affectionate. We shared dinners and watched silly TV shows. It felt like a fairy tale.
However, cracks began to surface with time.
One evening after dinner, Anna left her plate on the table and settled on the couch, scrolling on her phone.
“Anna, please clear your plate when you’re done. You’re old enough to take care of yourself.”
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Can’t you do it, Mom?”
I stood firm. “No. You’re in middle school. You need to learn responsibility.”
“Stop nagging! You’re unbearable.”
Marcus defended her. “Don’t be so harsh, Mary. She’s still a child; it’s your job to clean up.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “I’m not scolding her because she’s my stepdaughter. I want her to grow up.”
From that moment, Anna resisted any request. Marcus sided with her. Gradually, chores, shopping, cleaning — everything became my sole responsibility.
When I tried to talk — reminding him that family means helping each other — Marcus interrupted, “Household tasks are a woman’s job.” Anna mocked me, “You’re a cold mother.”
Despite working full-time, I was treated like a servant.
Then came the school issue. Anna was fourteen and preparing for high school entrance exams. She was intelligent but lazy. Although aiming for a prestigious private school, she spent afternoons scrolling through her phone.
“Anna, you need to study. High school will be more demanding.”
She sneered, “Shut up. You’re not my real mom.”
Marcus added, “Don’t stress her out. She’ll manage. She’s reliable.”
This sparked heated arguments. The more I insisted, the colder Marcus became. Sometimes he came home late mumbling “work,” leading me to suspect he was avoiding me.
The atmosphere grew tense. I thought about divorce but hesitated — after all the effort convincing my parents, would I disappoint them now?
One morning changed everything.
“Good morning, Anna. Breakfast’s ready.”
She passed me silently.
“Anna?” Nothing.
That evening, I attempted conversation with Marcus. “Hey, I need to discuss Anna…”
He remained silent, not even looking my way.
Day after day, they ignored me. Greetings, questions, or attempts to converse fell flat. It was as if I was invisible. They talked between themselves, but once I spoke, their eyes glossed over.
I cooked, cleaned, did laundry; even a “thank you” vanished. Weekends, they both went out, leaving me alone in what I believed was my home.
I tried harder — cooking Anna’s favorite curry, stocking Marcus’s preferred beer — to no avail. The silence closed in like walls.
“I cried under the shower where they couldn’t hear me. Why?”
The answer arrived unexpectedly.
One evening, returning early, I overheard voices outside the slightly open living room door.
Anna laughed, “Mom is so naive. Lol. The silent treatment is working perfectly. She’s quiet and does everything.”
Marcus chuckled, “Seriously. She stopped complaining and still pays all the bills. She’s become a handy servant.”
Anna continued, “For high school, I’ll need more money. Mom just needs to work harder! I’m young, not doing chores. Perfect. Let’s keep ignoring her.”
My heart pounded. My husband and stepdaughter laughed together about how easily they reduced me to a servant.
Rage burned inside me. I bit my lip until it bled.
I resolved never to forgive them.
The next morning, I greeted them one last time: “Good morning.”
They ignored me; Anna even clicked her tongue.
When they left, I silently packed. Taking only essentials, I closed the door behind me without a word.
I went to my parents’ house, fearing their disappointment. Instead, my mother took my hand with shining eyes. “You can stay as long as you want. It must have been so hard.”
My father declared firmly, “You did your best. That’s enough.”
Tears I had held back for months poured out. For the first time in two years, I felt seen.
A few days later, the phone rang. Marcus. Against all odds, I answered.
“Where the hell are you? How dare you leave? You’re a mother, don’t you feel ashamed? Come back immediately!”
I put the phone down but picked it back up. “No, Marcus. I’m not coming back. I want a divorce.”
“This is ridiculous. Stop throwing a tantrum because you were ignored a little! We’re not divorcing.”
He panicked — without me, no housekeeper.
I spoke calmly, “We are divorcing. Because you’re cheating, aren’t you?”
Silence, then: “Wh… what are you talking about?”
But I knew. The mysterious calls came from his mistress’s husband. Marcus didn’t work late; he dined with her, sometimes even taking Anna, lying to me. I’d heard Anna sigh, “Dad’s mistress is so pretty. I wish she were my mom.”
I pressed on, “I’ll ask for alimony. By the way — the apartment isn’t yours; it belongs to me. My father bought it before our marriage, and it’s under my name. I’ve already moved my furniture and put the apartment up for sale. Your and Anna’s stuff? I sent it to your parents. Good luck.”
The line went silent.
Then Marcus’s voice, high-pitched: “Mary, please. I’m sorry. I love only you. Forgive me.”
His words slid off me like water on stone.
“Neither you nor Anna wanted a wife or a mother. You wanted a servant. It’s over.”
I hung up.
My husband and stepdaughter ignored me as though I didn’t exist. So, I left quietly. That’s when panic began.
Part Two
After hiring a lawyer, the divorce process turned out faster than I expected. The evidence was undeniable: Marcus’s affair, his financial irresponsibility, his treatment of me. The mistress’s husband also filed a complaint. Lost in their “romance,” they soon found themselves overwhelmed by legal actions.
Marcus emptied his savings to pay alimony and damages to the mistress’s husband. It wasn’t enough. He took out loans.
Meanwhile, Marcus and Anna were evicted from my apartment, sold within weeks. I used the funds to buy a small, two-room flat near my office — peaceful, bright, furnished only with items I chose.
Marcus and Anna ended up in a shabby, cheap dwelling on the other side of town.
At first, I felt little — just relief. Then the calls resumed.
“Mary, please. Let’s reconcile. Anna wants to apologize too.”
Desperation, not love, echoed in his voice. He craved the stability I once provided — money, chores, my silence.
“No,” I replied coldly. “You said it yourself: without you, I was nothing. See now: without me, you are nothing.”
I hung up.
Months passed.
Acquaintances summed up the situation. Marcus’s debts mounted. Anna entered a public high school instead of the prestigious private one she bragged about. At first boastful, her arrogance isolated her. Friends drifted away, and she stayed indoors more and more. Neighbors complained about odors from their apartment.
One day, Marcus called, voice broken.
“Mary, I beg you. I can’t manage. Anna won’t leave her room. She yells at me. The place is filthy. They threaten eviction. Please… come back. For Anna’s sake, if not mine.”
A pang of sorrow hit me. I had wanted to be Anna’s mother. I tried.
But the mocking words echoed: “The silent treatment works too well. Mom is so naive.”
She had laughed at me with her father, treating me like nothing.
“No,” I said. “You created this situation. Live with it.”
“Mary—”
I hung up again.
The divorce was finalized. Damages paid. Papers signed.
I blocked Marcus’s number and immersed myself in work. Colleagues noticed the change — I laughed more, looked healthier. At home, I adorned my flat with flowers and photos of my parents, who had supported me during my so-called family’s betrayal.
I had no plans to remarry soon. I was rediscovering myself, independent from Marcus and Anna.
One evening, my father served me tea and said, “You’re stronger than you realize, Mary. They underestimated you.”
I smiled. “They thought I was a servant. I left. Now they’re the ones begging.”
Weeks later, Marcus made a final attempt. He showed up at my parents’ place, disheveled, bloodshot eyes.
“Mary, I’ll do anything. Come back. Anna needs you.”
I looked at him long and said gently:
“You had me. I begged you to treat me like family. Instead, you and your daughter laughed at me, used me, ignored me. Now you see what it’s like without me.”
His lips trembled. He whispered, “Without us, you’re nothing.”
I stepped forward, voice steady. “No, Marcus. You’re nothing without me. Look at yourself. I left silently, and here you are, desperate and speechless.”
He lowered his head. For the first time, he had no reply.
I turned away, closed the door, feeling the burden of thirty months of pain lift from my shoulders.
Life went on. My parents welcomed me with open arms. At work, I earned a promotion. I traveled with friends. Evenings were spent reading without fear of mockery.
Marcus and Anna became mere whispers in the neighborhood. Rumors spoke of Marcus’s ongoing debt struggles. Anna, isolated and bitter, spent days online. They reaped what they sowed.
Key Insight: I chose peace. I didn’t need their approval or company. I had myself, freedom, and a future I could shape. That was more than enough.
This journey taught me the power of self-respect and the courage to reclaim one’s life from toxic relationships.