My ex and I have been divorced for 2 years, and have two kids. My ex got a new girlfriend. I thought she seemed nice. But then she started posting photos of my kids. I politely asked her to stop, but she refused. So, I went to her IG, and was horrified to find a whole highlight reel labeled “My Littles” — full of pictures of my children.

Some of the pictures were clearly taken at events I had planned — a birthday party at my parents’ house, a picnic I set up at the park, even a quick shot of my son hugging his sister after she scraped her knee. None of those moments included her. And yet, she captioned them like she was there, like she was the reason they were smiling.

I felt this weird mixture of shock, confusion, and anger. Who does that?

Still, I tried to keep my cool. I messaged her again, more firmly this time. I told her it wasn’t appropriate to post other people’s children, especially without the parents’ consent. Her response? A laughing emoji followed by: “They love me. Get over it.”

That’s when the pit in my stomach turned to something colder.

I didn’t want to start drama — I really didn’t. But this wasn’t just about pride or jealousy. It was about boundaries. About my kids. About the truth.

I called my ex, thinking maybe he’d understand. He didn’t answer. So I sent him screenshots of her posts and messages. A few hours later, he replied with: “She’s just trying to be part of their life. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is.”

I stared at that message for a long time.

That night, after the kids were asleep, I couldn’t stop scrolling through her profile. She had hundreds of followers. Friends. Coworkers. Even some of my extended family, apparently. They all seemed to think she was this doting bonus mom.

But the worst part was… the lies.

She’d posted a picture of my daughter in her Halloween costume — one I handmade — and captioned it: “Picked this out together, my little butterfly.” Another one showed my son holding a trophy from a soccer game I took him to, and she wrote: “So proud of my boy!” She hadn’t even been at that game.

Each post was a rewrite of my children’s memories, twisted into a narrative where she played the leading role. And for every like and heart and “you’re such a great stepmom” comment, it felt like my identity — my motherhood — was being chipped away.

I vented to a close friend the next morning. She was livid.

“You need to talk to a lawyer,” she said. “This is beyond weird. It’s not normal.”

But I wasn’t ready for courts and battles. Not yet.

Instead, I tried something else. I posted a photo of the kids and me baking cookies, messy and happy, and captioned it gently: “Cherishing every moment I get to make with them. Nothing compares to being their mom.” A subtle reminder of the truth.

I didn’t tag anyone. I didn’t throw shade. But within 20 minutes, she posted a picture of the kids at her apartment, wearing aprons, holding spoons. Captioned: “Cookie nights are our thing 💕”

She was watching me. And competing.

I started documenting everything. Every post, every comment, every little moment she tried to hijack. I made a private folder, labeled it “Receipts.” I didn’t know what I’d do with it, but I knew I had to hold onto the truth.

Then something unexpected happened.

A woman named Carla messaged me. We’d never spoken before, but she said: “I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. I used to work with her. Just want to give you a heads up… she’s not who she pretends to be.”

At first, I thought it was just gossip. I almost ignored her. But then she sent me screenshots. Photos of other kids. Other “My Littles.” One from two years ago. One from four. Different cities. Different men. Same captions.

“She does this,” Carla wrote. “Finds men with kids. Plays perfect. Makes everyone think she’s a saint. Then it goes bad. Really bad.”

My heart sank.

I asked Carla if any of the other moms had spoken up. She said one tried — but her ex didn’t believe her either. Said she was “just jealous.”

I decided I wasn’t going to be another mom gaslighted into silence.

That weekend, I sat down with my ex. In person. No texts. No distractions.

I laid it all out. Showed him the folder. The screenshots. The patterns.

At first, he laughed it off. Said I was “overthinking.”

So I showed him the message from Carla. Then the old posts of other kids, with nearly identical captions to the ones about ours. Finally, I said:

“Look, I don’t care who you date. But when someone starts rewriting our kids’ lives to fit their fantasy, that’s not okay. This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about our children.”

He got quiet.

Really quiet.

The next day, all her posts of the kids vanished.

No announcement. No explanation. Just gone.

I thought maybe that was it. Maybe he finally talked to her.

But then, two weeks later, my daughter came home from her dad’s looking confused.

“She said we don’t love you anymore,” she whispered. “She said we love her now.”

I stared at her, stunned. “Who said that, baby?”

“Dad’s girlfriend. But I don’t think it’s true.”

I hugged her tightly, biting back tears. This wasn’t just online nonsense anymore. It was psychological. Toxic.

I called my lawyer the next day.

Not to fight for full custody — I wasn’t trying to take their dad away. But I wanted boundaries. Legal ones. Ones she couldn’t cross.

It took time, and it wasn’t easy. My ex pushed back at first. Said I was being “dramatic.” But I had the receipts. The timeline. The statements. I had facts — and a growing list of people willing to speak up, including Carla and two other women who reached out after I shared a post vaguely describing what was going on.

Turns out, she had a pattern. A disturbing one.

Eventually, my ex backed down. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he just saw the truth. We worked out a new agreement: only he could post the kids, and even then, with my consent. No girlfriend involvement. Period.

She didn’t take it well.

She posted a long rant on her story about “jealous exes” and “bitter women,” without naming me, of course. But people saw through it. Especially the ones who knew the full story.

A few weeks later, she was out of the picture.

My ex never admitted exactly what happened, but I think he finally saw the cracks. Or maybe the kids said something that got to him. Either way, she was gone.

And things got… peaceful.

We’re not best friends, my ex and I. But there’s a mutual respect now. A clearer line.

The kids? They’re okay. Happy. Safe. Still asking for cookie nights — but this time, just with me. And when they go to their dad’s, they don’t come back with strange stories or confused feelings.

One evening, while brushing my daughter’s hair, she asked, “Mom, why did she want to pretend we were hers?”

I paused, then said: “Some people want love so badly, they try to take it from others instead of making their own. But that’s not real love. Real love is something you build, not steal.”

She nodded, quietly. Then said, “I’m glad you’re my real mom.”

And just like that, it all felt worth it.

The lesson? Sometimes standing up for your kids means walking into uncomfortable places — not with rage, but with truth. With calm persistence. With receipts, yes, but more importantly, with love.

If someone crosses your boundaries, especially around your children, you’re allowed to say “No.” Loudly. Clearly. And without apology.

Mothers are not interchangeable.

Memories aren’t props.

And truth? It always finds a way to come out — especially when it’s fighting for something as pure as a child’s sense of safety and belonging.

If this story touched you or reminded you to trust your gut when it comes to protecting what matters most, share it with someone. You never know who might need to hear that they’re not overreacting. They’re just being brave.