**The Mistress Posing as a Sister: How My Husband Turned My Mother’s House into a Circus**
Anthony—my soon-to-be ex-husband—wasn’t originally from here. Years ago, he was stationed in our town for compulsory service. Once his time was up, he never went back home. He stayed. At first, he lived with a girl he’d met during his service, but it didn’t work out—they split. He rented a flat, took odd jobs, and ignored his family—his mother, two older brothers, and sister—who kept urging him to return.
Anthony and I met seven years ago. At the time, I lived with my elderly mother—I was a late-in-life child and couldn’t leave her alone under any circumstances. Anthony accepted that and moved in with us. Mum, however, refused to register him officially. So, he lived with us—as an out-of-towner.
I have a daughter from my first marriage, Lottie, who’s now nine. Anthony and I just signed the papers—no grand wedding, no guests. Back then, he had health issues, wasn’t working, and there was neither money nor reason for a celebration. Meanwhile, I worked relentlessly, often without weekends—my “two days on, two days off” schedule quickly became “seven days on, zero days off.”
Anthony stayed home and did the renovations. Mum and I gave him money—from her pension and my wages. He painted walls, replaced tiles, doors, re-plumbed the bathroom. Professionals installed the ceiling, but the rest? All his handiwork. He and Mum got on fine—no fights, no tension. He had his room, Mum slept with Lottie, and I, as usual, was at work.
On top of my salary, I received child support from my ex. That money was strictly for Lottie—food, clothes, school, clubs, and a bit set aside for her future. Her father wasn’t stingy; he helped regularly. Anthony barely interacted with her, and I didn’t push it—Lottie had a dad already involved in her life.
We never had children together. I didn’t want to.
Now, to the point.
A month ago, Anthony—who’d been working for six months by then—announced he was going out one evening. I asked,
“Where?”
“My sister and nephew are visiting. Need to meet them.”
I assumed he’d meet them and they’d go to a hotel or a friend’s place. Not ours. But no. An hour later, a blonde woman in her forties walked in with a teenager.
“I’m Mary,” she said. “This is my son, Simon.”
Anthony, as if this were perfectly normal, ushered them in. “Make yourselves at home,” he said, then went to fetch their luggage.
I stood frozen. I served tea to our “guests” and then cornered Anthony. Cool as anything, he said:
“Mary’s husband left her. They’ve got nowhere to go. I brought them here.”
“Lovely. And you didn’t think to ask me? This is Mum’s house. Where are they sleeping?”
He’d already decided—Lottie and I would move into Mum’s room, the teenager would take Lottie’s, and “sister” Mary would share with him. Just like that. We argued. I suggested the logical option—mother and son could share—but Anthony wouldn’t budge.
Mum was horrified. “Two days, maximum,” she said flatly, then reminded him, “You forget whose house this is? You could’ve at least asked.”
He exploded:
“I turned this dump into a proper home! Push me, and I’ll sue for a share!”
Mum’s blood pressure spiked. I snapped back, but he just sneered, “Want me to rip off the wallpaper? Smash the tiles?”
That night, Lottie and I stayed in Mum’s room while Anthony slept with his “sister.” I shook with rage.
The next morning, while he slept, I scoured social media. I searched for his actual sister—using a surname he’d mentioned once. Found her. The real Mary was brunette, 35, with a 14-year-old son, her profile full of posts like “Love my husband” and “Happy family.” So, who was this blonde?
Clearly, his mistress. And it all clicked. My first instinct was to scream, but I held it together. I sent Lottie to school with instructions to go to a friend’s afterward. Then Mum and I went to a solicitor.
They reassured us: cosmetic renovations didn’t entitle him to a share. So, we could kick him out. Next, the police. They shrugged: “Unless he breaks something, we can’t intervene.”
I sent Mum home, filed for divorce, then called friends. A few men agreed to help with the “eviction” that evening.
Back home, I kept calm, watching “Mary” and her “son.” The boy was 17, neither studying nor working. I asked harmless questions—about his childhood, school, relatives. They fumbled, exchanging nervous glances. Disgusting, but I waited.
That evening, the farce reached its finale.
My friends arrived. Anthony—out. “Mary”—out. The teen was politely shown the door. Suitcases—into the hallway. I finally snapped and shoved “Mary” out.
Outside, Anthony suddenly confessed:
“Fine, it’s Lucy. My mistress. Her husband kicked her out. I felt sorry for her. So I… messed up. Forgive me. All men do this—you can’t eat roast beef every day!”
Oh, Anthony. You forgot this wasn’t your house. And the “roast beef” wasn’t yours to carve up in my mother’s kitchen.
I might’ve kept quiet, but let this remind every woman: there’s someone whose husband moved his mistress into her mother’s home and slept with her next door. And that woman didn’t back down. Things will get better. Don’t be afraid. Remember—someone else’s audacity isn’t your burden to bear. You’ll manage. I did. And so will you.
