**The Mistress Masquerading as a Sister: How My Husband Turned My Mother’s House into a Circus**
Anthony—my soon-to-be-ex-husband—isn’t originally from here. Years ago, he was stationed in our town for his military service. Once his time was up, he never went back. Stayed put. At first, he lived with a girl he’d met in the army, but that fizzled out. He rented a flat, picked up odd jobs, and ignored his family—his mum, two older brothers, and sister—who kept begging him to come home.
We met seven years ago. At the time, I lived with my elderly mother—I was a late-in-life child, and leaving her alone was out of the question. Anthony seemed fine with that and moved in. Mum, though, refused to put him on the lease. So he stayed with us, technically still registered elsewhere.
I’ve got a daughter from my first marriage, Lottie, now nine. Anthony and I just signed the papers—no big wedding, no guests. He’d been unwell, out of work, and we had neither the money nor the energy for a party. Meanwhile, I was pulling shifts—sometimes seven days a week.
Anthony, on the other hand, stayed home and did DIY. Mum and I funded it—her pension, my wages. He wallpapered, re-tiled, swapped out doors and plumbing. The ceiling was professionally done, but the rest? All him. He and Mum got on well enough—no rows, no drama. He had his room, Mum and Lottie shared, and I? Well, I was usually at work.
My ex pays child support, which goes strictly to Lottie—food, clothes, school, clubs, and a bit tucked away for later. He’s decent about it. Anthony barely interacted with her, and I didn’t push it—she’s got a dad who’s involved.
We never had kids together. I didn’t want to.
Now, the fun bit.
A month ago, Anthony—who’d been working for six months—announced he was going out. I asked where.
“My sister and nephew are visiting. Need to meet them.”
Figured he’d take them to a hotel or friends. Oh, how wrong I was. An hour later, a blonde woman in her forties and a teenage boy walked in.
“I’m Marie,” she said. “This is my son, Oliver.”
Anthony, cool as you like: “Make yourselves at home,” then went to fetch their bags.
I stood there, gobsmacked. Sat them down for tea and cornered Anthony. He shrugged.
“Marie’s husband left her. They’ve got nowhere to go. So I brought them here.”
“Brilliant. And you thought you’d skip asking me? This is *my mother’s* house. Where are they sleeping?”
He’d already decided: Lottie and I would bunk with Mum, Oliver would take Lottie’s room, and “sister” Marie? With him. We argued. I suggested the *obvious*—Marie and Oliver share a room—but he wouldn’t budge.
Mum was livid. “Two days, max,” she said, and reminded Anthony: “Forgotten who owns this place? A heads-up would’ve been nice.”
He exploded. “I turned this dump into a palace! Push me, and I’ll sue for a share!”
Mum’s blood pressure skyrocketed. I jumped in, but he just snarled: “Keep it up, and I’ll rip the wallpaper off!”
That night, Lottie and I slept with Mum while Anthony cosied up with “Marie.” I shook with rage.
Next morning, while he slept, I stalked his *actual* sister online. Found her—Marie, 35, brunette, with a 14-year-old son. Her profile screamed “happily married.” So who was *this* Marie?
Obvious: the mistress. Lightbulb moment. My first instinct was to scream, but I held it together. Sent Lottie to school with orders to wait at a friend’s. Mum and I lawyered up.
Good news: DIY doesn’t earn you equity. Bad news: the police wouldn’t act unless he broke something.
I filed for divorce, then rang a few mates. A couple of blokes agreed to help “encourage” a move-out.
Back home, I played detective, asking Marie and Oliver about family, school—anything. They squirmed, contradicted each other. Grim. But I waited.
Evening. Enter the cavalry. Anthony? Out. Marie? Out. Oliver? Politely shown the door. Suitcases? Hallway. I *might* have given Marie a… motivational nudge.
Outside, Anthony cracked. “Fine, it’s Lucy. My mistress. Her husband kicked her out. I felt bad. So I… messed up. Come on, all men do it! You can’t eat beans on toast forever!”
Ah, Anthony. But you forgot—this wasn’t *your* house. Or your beans. Just my mum’s flat. And now? You’re evicted.
I might’ve kept quiet, but here’s a reminder to every woman: if your husband smuggles his mistress into your *mother’s home* and beds her next door, you *can* boot him out. It gets better. Don’t let audacity weigh you down. I didn’t. Neither will you.
