After 5 Years as a Stepmother, I Was Kicked Out Novel – After my sister’s death, I married her widower, Ellis Donovan, and became stepmother to their five-year-old son, Nate. On my birthday, I made the mistake of wearing one of her old dresses. The moment Nate saw me, he hurled my birthday cake straight at my face. Frosting dripped down my cheeks as he glared at me with the same cold disdain as his father. “You’ll never be my mom,” he hissed. “Gold-digging bitch.” Then, his voice darkened, venom seeping into every word. “I wish you were dead instead.
We should be mourning you, not celebrating.” “When I grow up,” he added, “the first thing I’ll do is throw you out of this house.” The sickly-sweet frosting slid toward my lips, but all I tasted was bile. I looked at the boy I’d tried so hard to love and felt… nothing. Maybe some bonds can’t be forced. Yet later, both Ellis and Nate came crawling back, full of apologies, begging me to forgive them. … “Tessa, do you really want to divorce Ellis?” Mrs. Mercer asked over the phone, her voice laced with concern. “Nate still needs you.
He’s so young.” Standing at the stove, one hand pressing against the counter, I replied evenly, “I married Ellis out of obligation. Nate’s five now—he can take care of himself. He doesn’t need me.” I owed Mrs. Mercer a great deal. To repay her generosity, I had agreed to a five-year marriage contract—a period of pretending to be the perfect Donovan wife, caring for Ellis and his son. That contract ended tomorrow; I would finally be free. Before she could respond, a sharp sting hit my forehead.
Something hard had struck me.A rock clattered to the floor tiles. I raised my hands to cover the cut, blood trickling down as I saw Nate lurking just outside the window. His arms were crossed, eyes narrowed in contempt. “Snitching to Grandma again? I guess the little lesson I taught you wasn’t enough. I should send you to Mom!” I stared at him, shocked, memories of the last hour rushing back. It was my twenty-fifth birthday. I had never celebrated one before, so I treated myself to a small cake.
But wearing my late sister’s dress sent Nate into a frenzy. He snatched the cake, scrawled “RIP” across it with black paint, and topped it with white chrysanthemums—flowers meant for the dead. My birthday cake had become a funeral offering. He laughed, gleeful. “You think you deserve a birthday? If it weren’t for you, my mom would still be here, and we wouldn’t be a broken family.
From now on, today isn’t your birthday—it’s your death day.” Then, with everyone watching, he slammed the cake into my face, ruining the one day I had been looking forward to. I didn’t yell or cry; I simply walked to the kitchen in silence. He followed, furious that I hadn’t reacted. “What’s the matter? You upset?” he taunted. “You’re so pathetic! I swear, when I grow up, the first thing I’m doing is kicking you out of this house.” I looked at him—this child I had poured five years of love and effort into—and felt my heart sink.
I was so exhausted. “You won’t need to,” I told him quietly. “I’m leaving this house tomorrow.” I then walked to the living room to tend to the cut on my forehead. As I was bandaging my bleeding head, I heard glass shatter from upstairs. A chill raced down my spine.