Sometimes trouble doesn’t knock—it just walks right in. No warning, no drama. Just a bright lipstick smile, a flirty laugh, and a breezy “Oh, you’re nothing like I imagined.” That’s how Tina, my husband’s half-sister and his mum’s golden child, strolled into our lives and nearly drove me to walk away from everything.
That evening started like any other. For once, I finished work on time, picked up our little girl, Lottie, from nursery, and took her to the park. Warm air, kids laughing, that blissful tiredness. We got home around eight. I’d barely changed when my phone rang—James calling.
“Love, I’m popping out to fetch Tina,” he said, like it was nothing.
“Tina?” I frowned. “The half-sister one?”
“Yeah. She’s divorced. Moving here for good.”
I only knew Tina from stories. Ten years ago, her dad married James’s mum, Margaret. Since then, Tina had been practically worshipped in their house. Margaret adored her—maybe for her looks, maybe because she knew just when to turn on the tears. James never talked about her much, and I never asked. But when he came home past midnight, dragging a massive suitcase with a weary smile, I knew: life as we knew it was over.
The next day, we went to meet her. Tina opened the door in pajamas, smudged eyeliner, and a fake grin.
“Hi! So you’re James’s wife? Huh. Thought you’d be… never mind.”
Margaret, glowing, had laid out a feast fit for a wedding—roast chicken, pies, pickles. She sat next to Tina, sighing about how hard life had been for her, how her ex-husband was terrible, and how she “deserved a fresh start.” Then, casually:
“Darling, maybe you could help Tina find work? You’ve got connections, haven’t you?”
And so it began. James scrambled to find her job openings, calling everyone he knew. I scoured rental listings. Eventually, we found her a flat upstairs—talked the landlords into it. James even sorted her paperwork. All for poor little Tina, who’d “had such bad luck.”
Then the nightmare really started. Tina in the morning, Tina in the evening. No car? James became her taxi. Didn’t cook? Showed up at ours. She’d waltz in at 9 PM, plonk herself in the kitchen, and sigh, “I’m starving, and I’ve had the worst day. Did you make anything?”
Once, she threw a party, music blaring till the neighbors called the police. The landlords were furious, but Tina somehow talked her way out of it. The next day, Margaret stormed in, fuming:
“Couldn’t you keep an eye on her? She’s only twenty-four—still a child!”
“Sorry,” I snapped, “but we didn’t sign up to be her babysitters. We helped. The rest is on her.”
“No one asked you!” Margaret barked. “I’m talking to my son!”
I left the room but heard the shouting through the wall—how we’d found her a “rubbish job,” how we’d “let her down.”
Days later, Tina called in sick. James got sent to do her grocery shopping. Then it was my turn: “Pop round, tidy up.” I refused. James sulked. Meanwhile, I remembered cooking soup with a 40-degree fever—no one rushed to help me.
Then the neighbors complained again, and the landlords gave Tina notice. She lost her job—too many complaints there, too. Margaret swooped in, sniffling, to collect her “sunshine,” cursing everyone else. I stayed quiet. One word, and I’d explode.
But a fortnight later—a miracle. Tina’s mate invited her to Manchester. Margaret fretted. I nearly cheered. For the first time in months, I breathed.
Tina left. And with her went the chaos. Quiet returned. Peace. I could finally be myself again—a wife, a mum, a woman. Let someone else deal with her drama. Just not us.
