When asked what I would like to be when I grew up, I can’t say I actually aspired to being a divorcée, however glamorous it sounded, or, for that matter, a wicked stepmother. I don’t know about you, but it’s not exactly every girl’s childhood fantasy, and besides, I was brought up to believe that divorce was nearly always attributable to loose women, menopausal men and the ensuing infidelity all this engenders, whilst stepmothers were, quite simply, an abomination. Infidelity, divorce and stepmothers...it was like some obsessional mantra of my childhood. Against this background, never did I in my wildest dreams imagine I would find myself accomplishing, well, at least the latter two. And so on a beautiful balmy night as the celebrant declared us husband and wife, like many other women before me, I made the transition from divorcée to wife and wicked stepmother, and in the twinkling of an eye became a member of that internationally recognised sorority-‘women who marry men with children’.

We may have become an instant family, but the transition to stepmother or stepchild does not automatically mean love or even affection for each other. It takes time to define your roles and responsibilities, to develop a relationship with the child, and to build trust on both sides. And I should know—I’ve made the grade. On that night seven years ago, I set out on a journey in pursuit of love and, with a little luck, a happy ending. It’s no exaggeration to say that I was unsuspecting, ill-equipped and unqualified. What’s that term Americans use? Greenhorn—that was me. Be that as it may, within the space of twelve months I became a full-time step mum to a child who resides with us permanently and has little or no contact with his biological mother.

I did not have nine months to prepare for the birth of this child, nor motherhood. I inherited a ready-made model without instructions, and our early years were characterised by misconceptions, unrealistic expectations and absurdities. The complexity of dealing with someone else’s child day after day, coupled with my anger and frustration at the absent mother, has at times been overwhelming. Parenting is a formidable task at the best of times, but step-parenting is in a realm of its own. Not only are you, in a primordial sense, nurturing genes that are not your own, but it’s a practice full of unwritten conventions and obscure rules. My grandmother-in-law, when I’m feeling sullen and sorry for myself, likes to tell me that I knew what I was getting into when I married my husband and took on my stepson. I mean, how does anyone really know what they’re getting into? You can read the books and talk the talk, but I don’t care what anyone says: nothing, absolutely, nothing prepares you for the realities of childbirth or becoming a parent of the first time. You have some vague idea, and on a wing and a prayer you hope for the best.