The story
As many of you know, writing is my outlet. It helps me process, and more importantly, it helps others feel seen. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted from sharing my words—that someone out there reading this won’t feel alone.
This one’s personal. Is it a story? A confession? A survival log? I don’t know. But I know someone else is going through this too. So if you’re here—if you’re listening—welcome.
The Beginning
February 17, 2023. That’s when I started dating P. Chill vibe, nothing serious at first. I knew he had three kids and an ex-wife before we even started talking, but I still gave it a chance. I liked him. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve loved kids. I was genuinely excited to meet his.
Eventually, I did meet them—three completely different little humans, but stuck together like glue. A little shy at first, but they warmed up quick. I started showing up more—for visits, for games—and I loved every second of it. They were sweet, silly, and made it easy to care.
Sounds great, right?
It was—until his ex made it her mission to turn it into hell.
So here we go.
Her Damage, My Burden
I was 24 when I started dating P. I’d just come out of a six-year relationship, and I had never dated someone with kids, let alone an ex-wife. I went in with eyes open.
He told me some things about her and her family—stuff from their past. I didn’t want to judge her based on his words alone. We all know the cliché: “She’s crazy.” I didn’t want to fall for that line. I told P straight up that I’d form my own opinion, that all I cared about was being a supportive presence for the kids—not trying to be their mom, not stepping on toes. Just light, just love.
I wish that had been enough.
The First Encounter
P invited me to his son’s baseball game. I was pumped to go—nervous, but excited. We sat on the opposite bleachers from his ex and her family. I kept my head down, watching the game.
Then her mother came stomping across the field. Walked right up to us, said a few snarky things to P, then turned her attention to me. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I sat there in shock. “I don’t know you,” I said, and turned away.
That was the moment I realized this wasn’t going to be simple. That I was stepping into something where strangers—people who had never spoken a word to me—were ready to rip me apart.
P felt horrible, kept apologizing, but honestly? I wasn’t mad at him. He didn’t make her say that. But I did start reminding myself to stay aware. Be understanding, sure—but never naïve.
I wish that had been the worst of it.
The Line Crosses
Another game. This time P had the kids and I was meeting them there. I got there first. Not long after, his ex showed up. Then her parents. All of them watching my car.
Then she started walking toward me.
I was on the phone with P. “She’s coming over here,” I said.
He told me, “Don’t talk. Just roll up your window.”
I told him I couldn’t. Hung up.
She came to my window. “Do you know where they are?” she asked. I said they were just running late.
She replied, “Okay, I just feel bad for [Child 1],” then walked away.
P arrived not long after with the kids, and all hell broke loose. Her parents ran up to his car—started yelling at him in front of the kids.
He asked them to walk away. They kept going, provoking. He finally raised his voice.
And then her mom looked at me and said,
“You’re attracted to this?”
I didn’t respond.
I focused on the kids—got them out of the car, away from the shouting. I held it together.
After the game, her mom came up to me like nothing happened, asking what our weekend plans were. Like she hadn’t stared me down and told me I should be ashamed weeks earlier. I kept it short. Cool. Distant.
Later, P said his ex wanted to talk to me about boundaries since I’d be around the kids. Reasonable, right?
So I reached out.
Her response?
“I won’t be able to talk. I need to focus on the kids—they were very upset after watching their dad scream at and threaten their grandparents.”
I said out loud: “This woman is lying through her teeth.”
P warned me she does that—twists words, builds a paper trail for her lawyer. I was shocked. But I didn’t take the bait. I told her thank you for being kind (a stretch), and said I was open to talking soon.
She never answered. Of course.
The Games She Plays
Fast forward to now.
She actively tries to make her kids hate me.
Tells them they don’t have to listen to me.
Tells them they can’t be in the same room as me watching TV.
Tells them lies about me—paints me as some kind of weirdo.
She’s poisoning them. Slowly. Strategically.
And in between all that?
She stalks me.
Every one of my Instagram accounts—blocked.
Her mom? Blocked.
Her brother? Blocked.
Her mom even friended me on Facebook.
Her father, nearly 80 years old, looked me dead in the face and said, “You’re a joke.”
I felt sick. I begged them to stop.
They didn’t.
Her daughter told me they had videos of me saved on her phone. What in the actual hell?
The Truth
I’ve never tried to replace her. I’ve never bad-mouthed her to the kids. I’ve never disrespected her role as their mother.
But somehow, I’ve become the target of her rage.
Her damage has become my burden.
And I know I’m not the only one living this kind of nightmare—trying to love someone who’s still shackled to a person who only knows how to lash out. Who lies. Manipulates. Weaponizes the children.
To anyone out there going through something similar—I see you. You’re not crazy. You’re not wrong for trying to show up and love someone who has history. And you’re not alone when it starts to feel like you’re carrying the weight of someone else’s unresolved bitterness.
Thanks for reading this far.
More to come.
– A.
