My husband, Anthony, originally hails from another town. Years ago, he was sent here for mandatory military service. Once he finished, he didn’t return home but stayed in the area. After his service, he moved in with a girl he’d met while serving.
Things didn’t work out—they split. Anthony rented a flat and carried on working. His family back home—his mother, two older brothers, and sister—kept asking him to return, but he never did.
We met seven years ago. I’ve got an elderly mother—I was a late-in-life child—and I couldn’t possibly leave her. Anthony understood and moved in with us. When he asked to be put on the tenancy, Mum refused straight away. So he lived here unofficially, still registered elsewhere.
Aside from Mum, I’ve got a daughter from my first marriage—Clarissa, or Clara, as we call her. She’s nine now.
After a year together, we married—just signed the papers, no big ceremony. Anthony had health issues back then and wasn’t working. We didn’t have the money for a wedding, nor did we want some over-the-top affair.
While he was at home, Anthony renovated Mum’s flat. She and I—her from her pension, me from my wages—gave him money for materials, and he did all the work himself. The wallpaper was replaced, internal doors were fitted, kitchen and bathroom tiles were relaid—it’s a combined space. We even had a false ceiling installed, though that was done by professionals.
Mum and Anthony got along fine—no arguments. He stayed in one room, Mum shared with Clara in the evenings and on weekends. I worked shifts—supposedly two on, two off—but I rarely took breaks, picking up extra shifts to keep us afloat.
On top of my wages, I get child support—but that money’s strictly for Clara. Some covers day-to-day needs—clothes, nursery fees, later school uniforms, books, and extracurriculars. The rest I save for her future—education or a small place of her own. Her father’s generous, so by the time she’s grown, there’ll be enough for a flat.
I should mention—Anthony never bonded with Clara. I never expected my current husband to take on parenting duties. She’s got her own dad who spends time with her, so I never pushed for closeness.
That’s more or less the backstory. We’ve got no children together—I didn’t want any.
Then, a month ago, things blew up. Anthony (who’d been back at work for six months) got ready to go out one evening. When I asked where, he said, *”My sister and nephew are visiting—got to meet them.”* I assumed they’d booked a hotel or were staying with friends. Never crossed my mind he’d bring them *here*. But he did.
Behind him walked in a fair-haired woman in her forties with a lad of about eighteen. *”I’m Mary,”* she said, *”and this is my son, William.”* Like it was nothing, Anthony invited them in, then went back to the car for their bags.
I sat them down for tea and pulled Anthony aside.
*”Mary’s husband left her. She’s got nowhere to go—I asked her to stay,”* he announced.
*”Why didn’t you ask me? This is Mum’s flat—you should’ve checked with her, too! And where are they even sleeping?”*
His solution was simple. Mum’s got a three-bed. One room’s hers, the second’s ours, the third’s Clara’s. So—I was to move in with Mum, Clara included. William would take Clara’s room, and Mary would share with Anthony.
We argued. Why couldn’t William and Mary stay together in Clara’s room? But he wouldn’t budge.
Mum wasn’t thrilled. She made it clear—two nights, max. And she tore into Anthony: *”Since when do you make decisions here? Last I checked, it’s my name on the lease.”*
He snapped back, *”I turned this dump into a proper home! Keep this up, I’ll take you to court for my share!”*
Mum was stunned—her blood pressure shot up. I tried reasoning with him, but he doubled down, even threatened to rip the place apart—tear up the tiles, strip the wallpaper.
That night, Mum, Clara, and I shared a room. William slept in Clara’s bed, and Anthony got his wish—Mary stayed with him. The sheer audacity floored me. Years of lounging about, then suddenly acting like he owned the place.
The next morning, while Anthony slept, I looked up his sister, Mary, online. I’d never used social media before but signed up just for this. The surname rang a bell—he’d once mentioned his sister married into a family with the same name as some distant relatives of mine.
Found her. Mary, his *actual* sister—a brunette, 35, mother to a fourteen-year-old William. Her profile was plastered with *”Love my husband,”* *”Blessed with family,”* all that. So—who the hell had *he* brought home?
The answer was obvious. A mistress.
I kept cool. Sent Clara off to school with instructions to go to a friend’s afterwards and wait for my call. Then Mum and I saw a solicitor. The consultation settled us—cosmetic renovations don’t qualify for a legal stake in the property. Had it been structural, we’d have been in trouble.
Next stop—the police. I knew Anthony wouldn’t leave willingly, and if we forced him out, he might follow through on his threats. They brushed us off: *”Come back when there’s actual damage.”*
I dropped Mum home, filed for divorce, then called a few male friends. A couple agreed to help evict him—but not till after work.
Back home, I reassured Mum. Watching Anthony and *”Mary”* made my skin crawl. Turned out *”William”* was seventeen—no job, no school.
I spent the rest of the day needling *”his sister”* with questions about their childhood, relishing their flustered exchanges. I bided my time.
That evening’s showdown? Unforgettable. My friends tossed Anthony out, I gave *”Mary”* a piece of my mind—and the kid was politely shown the door. His belongings followed shortly after.
As a parting shot, Anthony confessed. *”Mary”*—actually *Lucy*—was his mistress. Her husband had kicked her out, and my genius of a spouse thought bringing her *here*—posing as his sister—was the solution. He pleaded, *”All men stray—you can’t eat roast beef every day.”*
Me? I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t even be sharing this, really—except maybe some woman out there needs to know: somewhere, a wife slept one room over while her husband bedded his mistress in her mother’s flat. And that wife didn’t crumble.
You’ll get through it, too. No problem’s unsolvable. Chin up.
