The day I moved out of my mom and stepdad’s house, they came along to help me move. Normally, that would be great, but my mother has serious anger issues, and she was clearly looking for a fight all day. There were several small incidents before it finally boiled over that night.

Eventually, she started stomping around like a toddler and screaming that I was “f****** useless” over a minor problem with her suitcase, which I hadn’t packed and had never used. I told her, as calmly as I could, that we were in my house now, and if she kept screaming at me, I would ask her to leave.

Mom had a complete meltdown, spent the night melodramatically sobbing in my guest room, and left early the next morning.

After a few months of us not speaking, I had this conversation with my stepfather.

Stepfather: “You know, you should call your mom and apologize.”

Me: “I’ve been down that road. If you apologize to her, she takes it as an admission that you were wrong and she was right. I’m not going to tell her that it was okay to scream at me and call me names like that, especially over something that wasn’t my fault.”

Stepfather: “Well, you went too far. You shouldn’t have asked her to leave.”

Me: “If I call her and apologize, she’ll assume that means nothing has changed between us. She’ll believe she was 100% right to treat me the way she did and that I’ll just keep letting her do it the way I did as a kid. And that means that sooner or later — probably sooner — this s*** will happen again. So, let me ask you: what should I do?”

Stepfather: “What?”

Me: “When Mom’s throwing a tantrum, you can’t get her to stop. Believe me; I tried for years! I tried apologizing and telling her she was right, I tried reasoning with her, I tried standing absolutely still and not responding, and I tried standing my ground and fighting back. Nothing worked. She just keeps yelling until she runs out of steam or one of us leaves. Well, I refuse to stand there and be treated like s*** for no reason in my own house, and I refuse to leave my own house to get away from her. And apparently, I’m not allowed to politely ask her to leave, either. So, next time she’s here and she starts screaming at me over something that isn’t even my fault, what do you think I should do?”

He paused for a moment.

Stepfather: “I’ll think about it.”

That was well over a year ago. I did eventually partly reconcile with my mother, only because I hosted my brother’s wedding and I wanted us to be civil while she was at my house for that. I was right: as soon as I said I was sorry, she started telling me exactly how out of line I was to ever ask her to leave under any circumstances. The closest she came to taking any responsibility for the fight was a half-hearted “I’m sorry you felt like you needed to do something like that” non-apology, and she never so much as mentioned the screaming tantrum she’d thrown.

Mom hasn’t been back to my house since I moved in, except to attend the wedding, and she told my brother that she would never come back for any other reason. She told me to my face that she’ll “never trust me again”. And my stepfather never did come up with a suggestion for what to do instead, nor did he ever admit that there WAS no good alternative. 

Oh, well. I guess I was wrong about one thing. If Mom never sets foot in my house again, she can’t scream at me here again after all, so it doesn’t really matter that my stepdad never gave me an answer.

I’ve been very open and adamant about not wanting children since I was in my single digits. It’s never been an interest of mine, and the more people insisted that I would change my mind as I got older, the louder I got about not wanting any kids.

Age eleven:

Dad: “You’ll see when you have kids.”

Me: “I don’t want children. You can’t make me have any.”

Dad: “That’s what I said, and now I have four of them. You’ll see.”

Age thirteen:

Me: “You can’t be serious.”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “You talk about how expensive kids are all the time and how broke we are, you complain about your wife not getting a job and how the house is a disaster because there are too many people crammed into a two-bedroom, and now you’re having another kid? Four wasn’t enough?”

Dad: “These things happen. You’ll see when you have kids of your own.”

Me: “Not a chance. I don’t want kids, and there were ways of preventing this. Where are you going to put a baby, anyway? There’s no more room in the house!”

Dad: “It’ll work itself out. You’ll need to figure out things like this when you have kids of your own.”

Age fifteen:

Dad: “So, your stepmom and I have news—”

Me: “Would you rather get condoms or have us pay for a vasectomy?”

Dad: “Oh, come on!”

Me: “Six kids! There are eight people living in this tiny two-bedroom, one-bathroom house.”

Dad: “Moving is expensive.”

Me: “And kids aren’t? You know what’s not expensive? Condoms! Use them!“

Dad: “I can’t wait until you have kids.”

Me: “Not happening. Ever.”

Age eighteen:

Dad: “I can’t believe you’re moving out. You’re still in high school! Where are you going to go?”

Me: “I’m moving in with [Best Friend] and her family until college starts, and then I’m going to live in the dorms. I’m eighteen; you can’t stop me. I’ll have my own room, and she and I will share a bathroom, and for the first time in my life, there won’t be screaming babies keeping me awake until after midnight.”

Dad: “Fine. I guess we need the space anyway. [Stepmom] is about three months pregnant…”

Me: “Are you f****** kidding me?”

Dad: “These things happen. You’ll see when you start having kids.”

Me: “I don’t want kids. I’ve never wanted kids. You have way too many. The illusion is broken. I’ve been changing diapers since I was four years old. I’ve had to share my tiny room with three of my siblings and fight over bathroom time. You’re always broke, tired, and messy, and you complain nonstop about how loud the kids are. You’re never home, and when you are, you just yell at us. I’ve had to give up my life to help raise my own siblings. I. Don’t. Want. Kids.”

Dad: “You’ll change your mind. I always said I didn’t want any, either, and now—”

Me: “And now you have seven and live in a house that is falling apart around you, and you have to work three jobs just to keep the lights on. Great life plan.”

Age twenty-one:

Dad: “So… anything you want to tell us? About… anything?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m gay. Still don’t want kids. Oh, and I’m moving to [City over 1,000 miles away].”

Dad: “But… No, no, it’s time you start thinking about kids.”

Me: “Thought about it. Not for me. I’m leaving next week.”

Dad: “Absolutely not. I forbid it! It’s time you settle down and give me some grandkids!”

Me: “Not a chance in h***.”

Age twenty-five:

Dad: “You’re getting married?”

Me: “Sure am!”

Dad: “Finally got knocked up, huh? I knew you’d have kids eventually.”

Me: “Uh… how exactly would [Wife] have knocked me up?”

Dad: “I don’t know. Figured you did IVF or something. Married people have kids. Oh, and speaking of, [New Wife] and I have something to tell you.”

Me: “You’re kidding.”

Dad: “Number nine will arrive around your birthday.”

And finally, at age thirty-one:

Dad: “You’re getting up there in age, you know. It’s time you start thinking about when you want to have kids.”

Me: “You know, I’ve been giving that a lot of thought lately.”

Dad: *Excitedly* “Yeah?”

Me: “Yeah. Kids aren’t for me. My hysterectomy is next week. Talk to your eight other kids if you want grandkids that badly because you’re not getting them from me.”

Dad and his new-new wife — marriage number five for him — then decided to adopt three more kids, bringing his number of children up to twelve. He doesn’t understand why his four grown kids are all child-free and insists that we’ll change our minds.

My mother-in-law is one of those nasty fairytale stepmothers. She didn’t boss my husband around as a child, but she disapproved of everything he loved and more than once tossed toys or books she considered “wrong” or “childish”. So, when we were dating and it was time to meet the family, he asked me to be patient. This woman makes his father happy and that’s really important to him.

I get introduced and during tea, we start talking. 

Stepmother: “Well, [Husband]’s apartment could really use a lady’s hand! It’s about time he grew up.”

Me: “It’s not that bad. I like being there. It’s so lively over there.”

Stepmother: “Oh? Has he already cleaned up for you? My, [Husband], you must be serious about her! It was about time you threw away those games and toys.”

I see my husband looking down. The games and toys his stepmother mentioned are those big online RPGs, collectible figurines, and [Pocket Monsters]. 

Stepmother: “A man has to make a choice: grow up or be alone forever. So, [My Name], what are your hobbies?”

Me: “Oh, I crochet.”

Stepmother: “Oh! Me, too! See that blanket over there? It took me three months!”

Me: “That’s a lovely blanket. I’m not that good yet.”

Stepmother: “Oh, then what do you crochet? Do you have pictures?”

I see my husband shake his head slightly. I know what he means, but they’ll find out eventually, and heck, this woman is making my future husband sad. I’ll make an enemy out of her eventually, so why not start now? 

Me: “Oh, I do! As a matter of fact, this is how [Husband] and I met! I crochet [Pocket Monsters], and I have a little online store. He bought three projects of mine. Look! And then we started talking, and from one thing came another… and now he lets me create lovely little scarfs or hats for his figurines! It’s great practice and helps my sales go up! I’m so glad I met [Husband] — finally, someone who loves [Pocket Monsters] as much as I do! I can’t wait to combine my figurine collection with his; mine is mostly crammed in a little cabinet. He still has plenty of space. Right, [Husband]?”

My mother-in-law’s face goes sour, and I detect a little smirk on my husband’s face.

When we go home, my husband asks:

Husband: “Why did you do that? She’ll never approve of you now!”

Me: “Hey, I had a choice: I could have a happy mother-in-law… or a happy boyfriend. Guess which is more important to me?”

We married three years later. I crocheted little dolls of us as a centerpiece on the cake. My husband loved it. My mother-in-law hated it. Best wedding ever.

My mother died when I was five. I was old enough to have very fond memories of the kindest woman to ever live, who loved me more than anything in the world, even after she got sick. When she died, my inconsolable dad didn’t even think about dating for several years.

He sat me down when I was eleven and told me that he had met someone. He had been seeing her secretly for several months, and he would like me to meet her before he moved any further. While I was a little bit terrified — my friends had stepmothers who HATED them, and they hated them right back — I agreed to do it for my dad, who had always put me first. I figured if this woman was special enough to get my dad to start dating again, then I should at least see what she was like.

Enter [Stepmum]. She showed up to our first meeting nervous as h*** with a puzzle in her hand. I LOVED puzzles, but my dad lacked the patience to do them with me and was always working. She tipped it out onto the table and sat down to help, answering every single one of my rapid-fire questions — even the ones that made my dad turn bright red. From that afternoon forward, we were best friends.

She was kind and funny, and she never tried to push me into anything. She came to every one of my hockey games and cheered louder than anyone else and always took me out for lunch afterward. I went to her when I got my first period, terrified because Dad had assumed that sex-ed had prepared me, and she handled it like a champ.

A year after I met [Stepmum], she moved in, and she and Dad got married. I was her maid of honor. She was an only child and her parents spoiled the HECK out of me — fancy electronics, new clothes, tonnes of “I saw this and thought of you!” presents. [Stepmum] couldn’t have kids of her own, so I was their one shot at grandchildren, and they took that opportunity and ran with it.

When I was fourteen, Dad sat me down again. He informed me that he was also sick.

Dad: “[Stepmum] would like to adopt you in case anything happens to me so that you can stay with her.”

I had a visceral reaction to this. Not only was my dad sick, but now the worst was happening: [Stepmum] was trying to replace MY mum. She appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Stepmum: “For God’s sake, [Dad], that was not what we discussed that you would say.”

Dad fumbled for a moment while I cried and sniffled and said, “No,” over and over again.

Stepmum: “That’s totally fine, honey. Our other option is signing some papers for legal guardianship so that I can keep you in case of the worst happening. Is that something you want?”

I nodded enthusiastically, even through my snot and hiccups. I didn’t want to ever be without [Stepmum]; I just couldn’t handle her replacing my mother. We signed those papers, and that was that.

My dad fought like h*** and recovered, even if he was now down a leg. [Stepmum] is now the world’s greatest grandma to my three little gremlins, and they love to go for rides on Poppy’s wheelchair. [Stepmum] is absolutely my mum in every sense of the word except on paper — and she never pushed for the paper, either.

This story is part of our Highest-Voted-Inspirational-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) roundup!

Read the next Highest-Voted-Inspirational-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) story!

Read the Highest-Voted-Inspirational-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) roundup!

I live with my mother, though we’re more like roommates. I pay the gas and electric bills while she pays the rest of the bills. My stepdad sleeps in a different house that we also own to keep it from seeming to be abandoned while we save up money to renovate it.

One morning in early December, I get up and am much more groggy than usual. I stumble out of my room to go to the bathroom, and I see my stepdad look up. He’s over by the stove and frantic.

Stepdad: “Are you okay?!”

Me: “I’m tired. I need to use the bathroom.”

Stepdad: “No, get your cat and go outside! Now!”

I am very confused, but I do what he says. I go back, grab my cat, and wander out of the house after slipping some shoes on. My stepdad comes back out a few minutes later with my groggy mother, the other cats, and the dog.

Stepdad: “The entire house was filled with gas! There was so much in there that you could see it! Are you both okay?!”

Now I begin to panic.

Me: “What?! How did that happen? Do we have a gas leak?”

Stepdad: “No, the stovetop was turned on, but it didn’t have a flame in it! The entire house was pumped with gas all night! Who left the stove on?!”

Mom: “Oh. I did that.”

Me: “…you did what?”

Mom: “I turned the flame on low to add some heat to the house last night. Something must have blown it out.”

I can’t tell who is angrier at this: me or my stepdad.

Me: “What the h***? Why would you do that?!”

Mom: “Well, it was cold, and the heater has been acting weird, so I didn’t want to turn it on.”

Me: “If [Stepdad] hadn’t gotten here in time, we could have died! No, listen to me. I pay the gas bill, and I say no more turning a burner on at night! Ever!”

Mom: “Well, what am I supposed to do when it gets cold?”

Me: “Put on a pair of socks! Wear an extra pair of PJ bottoms! Wear something with sleeves! Throw another blanket on your bed! You have a large, warm dog who sleeps with you; snuggle her!”

We later figured out that the reason we both made it through okay was that I sleep with my head next to the window that I keep cracked open in the winter, because I need a VERY cold room to be able to sleep well, and one of the windows in mom’s room has a chunk of glass missing. We both had a good supply of fresh air, as did the animals who sleep with us.

Mom doesn’t pull this anymore.