I tried to be a good stepmum. But since having my own child, I admit I bitterly resent my stepsons’ very existence

A couple of weeks ago, my husband Jeremy and I were sitting in a bar on a sun-soaked Greek island sipping cocktails after a lazy day at the beach. Our two sons, Fred, 20, and Alfie, 18, started chatting to some girls on the neighbouring table.

Soon their parents struck up a conversation and inevitably, one of the first questions was: ‘How many children do you have?’ Before I could jump in, Jeremy robustly replied: ‘We have four!’ Whenever anyone asks this question he always, always, says four. But he’s wrong. We have two children and he has two from his former marriage.

I’m not one for scenes, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that I want to kill him every time he does this. Because, of course, the person he’s speaking to always makes some polite comment about having so many children, which gives Jeremy, who’s 60, all the excuse he needs to launch into the tangled branches of our family tree.

How he has two sons from his first marriage, Ben, 30, and James, 28, then his children with me. Meanwhile, I sit smiling through gritted teeth, consigned to a supporting role in his family history.

Perhaps I sound insecure. There’s really no reason for that: we have been married for 23 years.

But as petty as it sounds, I hate the focus on a different life my husband once had.

When our sons were young, I did once tell him, privately, how much this upsets me. The result was a monumental row. He was never, ever going to deny his former life. I couldn’t see why that meant he needed to tell complete strangers.

Whatever people say, they do judge you for being the second wife, the stepmother. I see it in their eyes, in cautious responses.

Stepmother — that loaded word is the painful crux of the matter. For years I tried to be a ‘good’ stepmother, to do everything right and not to be hated simply for existing. But the truth is, I don’t like being a stepmum. Who would?

Sometimes I’m filled with resentment for my husband’s firstborn sons and bitterly regret deciding to settle down with a man whose priorities would always be divided.

I was young and hopeful when I met Jeremy and his sons, then aged five and three. He was 35 and focused on his career in tech startups, and I was 25 and equally focused on mine, in marketing. His ‘starter marriage’ had ended amicably a year previously.

When Jeremy proposed, after two years together, my answer was always going to be yes, with one proviso. I wanted to be a mum, too. His attitude was, essentially ‘the more the merrier’. The boys were delighted to be our page boys.

The only person who wasn’t over the moon on my wedding day was my mother. She sat me down early on and warned me about getting seriously involved with someone who had children. That no matter what Jeremy said, his firstborn children would always come first.

At the time her words simply ran off me like raindrops. I was too in love to think through what being a stepmother meant.

I embraced my new role. When the boys stayed over, every other weekend and for half of every school holiday, I got up in the night when they couldn’t sleep. With my husband working all hours, I invariably did the school run.

I read self-help books for stepmothers, I joined support groups, I curbed my 20-something social life to put them first. And I enjoyed it. They were lively and at times untidy, as all children are, but they were also tactile, loving boys.

I helped Ben with his art homework, went with James to the local rescue centre to choose the cat he desperately wanted. At weekends, Jeremy was all-in with his sons; playing football or getting competitive over computer games. I kept things running so he could play happy families.

But it became clear that, no matter how hard I tried, I’d always be found wanting — not least, by the boys’ mother.

There have been times when the mum really resented her stepchildren’s existence, times when she could clearly see that her life has been ‘less than’ as a result of her second set of kids [stock image]

One school open day, there was a mix-up and I delivered Ben to his mother an hour late. She was furious and tore a strip off me in front of the other mums. I’ve never felt so humiliated.

When James needed dental surgery under general anaesthetic (which Jeremy was paying for), I drove him to hospital with Jeremy. But his mum made it clear I wasn’t welcome. I drove off, tears stinging my eyes.

In the early years I heard ‘you’re not my mother!’ countless times whenever I asked them to do anything from clean their teeth to get dressed for school. Through all of this, I stuck with it, determined to win their approval.

But when Jeremy and I started our own family, things changed.

I was 30 when Fred was born and as I held this tiny baby in my arms, a ferocious maternal love ignited within me. Everything and everyone else paled into insignificance. My world had changed for ever.

And yet in that moment I realised, with an almost unnatural clarity, that the same was not true for Jeremy. The excitement, the love, the panic and uncertainty I felt? For him they were muted.

So much so that he joked to the midwives about Fred being his third son. Did he really need to say so, in the delivery room of all places? The elder midwife rolled her eyes at me, clearly realising he’d dropped a clanger. It broke a little bit of my heart.

When our boys first said ‘Dada’ or took tentative, wobbly steps, the excitement wasn’t there.

I have tried discussing this with Jeremy. But whenever I do, he shuts me down utterly by reminding me how lucky our boys are to live with both parents. Yes, that’s true but it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve his full attention and love.

They certainly don’t need to be compared with his elder sons, as if they aren’t allowed to have anything their brothers were denied due to Jeremy’s divorce.

We are lucky in so many respects. We’ve never had money worries to cause friction between my stepsons’ family and ours. Jeremy, a serial entrepreneur, works all hours to ensure we live a wonderful life, with a home in the North-East and a place in Spain, too.

And no, none of this is Ben and James’s fault, but there are times when I have really resented their existence. Times when I can clearly see that my life has been ‘less than’ as a result of being the second wife, with the second set of children. I know this makes me sound ridiculous, but I had to leave the room when we booked our first skiing holiday to the French Alps. It goes without saying that my stepsons, then 16 and 14, were joining us.

Fred and Alfie were six and four, and Jeremy said they’d have to make do with Ben and James’s outgrown skiing clothes. Why couldn’t they have new ones? I just wanted them to have everything their brothers had had.

In fairness to Ben and James, they adored Fred and Alfie when they came along from day one. At times, I was utterly charmed to see them all playing together.

But as they grew up, four children in the house made me want to scream. Four children all demanding help with homework, needing a snack or a lift to a friend’s house. I sometimes felt pulled in four directions by the expectation that I should always treat them the same.

Over the years, my sense of unfairness grew and I confess I subtly tried to keep my two apart from their half-brothers.

I encouraged them to have playdates with their contemporaries whenever my stepsons stayed. I also urged my sons to spend more time with their cousins on my side of the family. But they just wanted to be with their ‘brothers’.

I did once insist on having a family holiday for just the four of us, when the boys were tweens. But my decision went down like a lead balloon, with the boys moaning about having to spend time just with their parents.

Things got worse, inevitably, as my stepsons entered their teens. The entitlement! They would still stay with us every other weekend and there was the same expectation that I would be picking up after them. That I would be stepmum taxi, on call all weekends and holidays.

The only time my husband and I have really fallen out over this is when, ten years ago, Ben asked if he could move in with us.

He wasn’t getting on very well with his mum and when Jeremy broached the idea of him staying in the guest room I came up with a badly concocted excuse. In the end he stayed with a friend’s family. I felt like a total heel for refusing, but I was panicky about not seeing an end in sight.

Jeremy insists he loves all his sons equally, but I do wonder at times whether that is truly the case, given how differently he treats them.

Growing up, Jeremy always carved out quality time with his elder boys alone, including camping trips and days away. That’s fine — I get it.

But he hasn’t done the same for our sons, spending quality time just the three of them. Instead we are always a foursome, or of course it’s all six of us.

When I gently raised this with him, he admitted he still feels awful for not being a full-time father to his elder boys but said nothing will change that.

He also tries to make up for this with overly generous gifts: a hefty five-figure gesture towards Ben’s first home and a car for James when he graduated.

So far our boys don’t have those kinds of needs, but I’m determined that they won’t lose out in any way, including financially. Yes, I’m talking about inheritance here.

Thanks to my marketing business, which I still run part-time, I have already put aside a fair amount for Fred and Alfie.

I have ensured that Jeremy has done the same. I’m also now listed as a director for Jeremy’s company and I own 25 per cent of the business.

The trouble is, I absolutely don’t want our wills to be divided between the four boys. I’ve worked hard for what we have built and I want everything to go to our two sons.

Jeremy, being Jeremy, wants an equal four-way split. But I’m steadfast that my earnings and business are not included in it.

So we have agreed that Jeremy’s assets will be split four ways, while mine — including my share of his business — will be left solely to our two. Our two properties are jointly held and I’ll leave my share of those to my boys, as well.

Jeremy’s a fit and healthy man, although he’s had minor health issues over the years. I do wonder what will happen the day he is no longer here.

From my perspective I will have sole control of his company with only a few individual assets of his left to my stepsons — so there will simply be no need for me to stay in contact with them.

As for my sons, is it wrong to confess that I hope when they have their own families they will realise they need to look after their own?

But for now, they’re closer than ever with their ‘brothers’. Ben has his own home and he’s told them ‘mi casa es su casa’ (my house is your house) so they’re constantly spending weekends at his place.

Yes, I know I should be pleased about their close bond, but I feel that my two sons should put each other first. That’s the bond that matters most.

Over the years, any true closeness between me and my stepsons has withered. I can’t remember when I last sent a text to either of them individually or received one for that matter.

The mum accepts that she is lucky in many respects, never having money worries to cause friction in the family, and her husband, a serial entrepreneur, works all hours to ensure they live a wonderful life with a holiday home in Spain, too [stock image]

Family photos reflect the humiliating truth: I am a spare part to them. When my eldest stepson got married last year, my sons were called on to be ushers.

My husband and his ex were at the top table and featured in all of the pictures now proudly displayed in my husband’s office — whereas I stood about, awkwardly looking for other guests to have a conversation with.

Don’t misunderstand me, I am very fond of my stepsons. How could I not love them, on one level? But in the dark hours of the night, I know that my mother was right in her warning on my wedding day. Because my husband’s elder children really are his lifelong priority.

Sometimes, I could kick myself for being so naive.

I tried to be a ‘good’ stepmother, but there’s a reason for all the old cliches — in the end, your own child comes first.

So do I love those boys, who have now grown into fine young men, like I do my own?

Of course I don’t.

As told to Samantha Brick. All names have been changed.