My now-ex-husband came from another town long ago. Back in his youth, he was sent here for compulsory military service. Once his duty ended, instead of returning home, he chose to stay. He moved in with a girl he’d met during his time in the army, but that didn’t last—they parted ways. Anthony rented a flat and carried on with his work. His family wanted him back—his mother, two brothers, and an older sister—but he never went.
We met seven years ago. I’ve an ageing mother, being born late in her life, and I could never leave her. Anthony agreed to this and moved in with us. When he asked to be put on the lease, my mother refused outright, so he lived with us as an unofficial tenant.
Besides my mother, I’ve a child from my first marriage—my daughter, Eleanor, or Ellie, as we call her. She’s nine now.
A year into living together, we married quietly at the registry office. Anthony had been in poor health then, so he wasn’t working. We didn’t have the means for a grand wedding, nor did we want one.
While he was at home, Anthony fixed up my mother’s flat. Mum and I—she from her pension, me from my wages—gave him money for materials, and he did the work himself. Wallpaper was stripped, new doors fitted, kitchen and bathroom tiles relaid—the works. He even had a false ceiling installed, though that was done by professionals.
Mum got on well with Anthony; they never quarrelled. He kept to his room, Mum shared hers with Ellie in the evenings and on weekends. I worked shifts—supposedly two on, two off—but I rarely took my days, picking up extra hours to keep us afloat.
Aside from my wages, I had another income—maintenance payments. But that money was strictly for Ellie. Half went on her needs—clothes, nursery fees, later school expenses, uniforms, books, and extra lessons. The rest I saved for her future—university or a modest place of her own. Her father wasn’t tight-fisted, so the sum should cover her needs by adulthood.
Truth be told, Anthony hardly spoke to Ellie. I never foisted her on him—she had her own father, after all—so I never pressed for closeness between them.
That’s the backstory. We’d no children of our own—I didn’t want any.
Then came last month’s disaster. Anthony—employed again for six months—announced one evening he was off somewhere. When I asked where, he said,
*“My sister and nephew are visiting. I’ve got to meet them.”*
I assumed they’d booked a hotel or stayed with friends. Never did I imagine he’d bring them *here*. But he did.
Behind him walked in a fair-haired woman of about forty with a lad of eighteen or so.
*“I’m Margaret,”* she said. *“This is Edward, my son.”*
Anthony, cool as you please, invited them in before heading back to fetch their bags.
I settled them with tea and pulled Anthony aside.
*“Margaret’s husband left her. She’s nowhere to go, so I invited her here.”*
*“Why wasn’t I asked? This is *Mum’s* flat—you should’ve spoken to her, too! And where will they even *sleep*?”*
His solution was simple. Mum’s flat had three rooms: hers, ours, and Ellie’s. I was to move in with Mum and Ellie. Edward would take Ellie’s room, and Margaret would share with Anthony.
We rowed. Why couldn’t Edward stay with his mother in one room? But Anthony wouldn’t budge.
Mum was livid. She made it clear they’d two days, no more, and demanded, *“Since when was I not mistress in my own home?”*
Anthony exploded.
*“I turned this hovel into a palace! Keep this up, and I’ll sue for my share!”*
Mum went pale, her blood pressure spiking. I argued, but he stood his ground, threatening to rip up the tiles and tear down the wallpaper if crossed.
That night, Mum, Ellie, and I slept together. Edward took Ellie’s room, and Anthony—just as he’d wanted—shared with his *sister*. The sheer *audacity*—years unemployed, now playing lord of the manor.
Come morning, while Anthony slept, I searched online—I’d never used social media before, but I knew Margaret’s surname. Anthony had once mentioned his sister shared it with distant cousins of mine.
What I found chilled me. The *real* Margaret, his sister, was a brunette of thirty-five, mother to a fourteen-year-old Edward, her page filled with *“Love my husband”* and happy family posts.
So who *was* this woman in my home?
The answer was obvious—his mistress.
Fury burned, but I kept calm. I sent Ellie to school with instructions to wait at a friend’s until I called. Then Mum and I consulted a solicitor. Relief came swiftly—cosmetic repairs gave Anthony no claim to the property. Capital work would’ve, but this wasn’t that.
Next, the police. They shrugged. *“Call us if he smashes the place.”*
I left Mum at home, filed for divorce, then rang every male friend I had. Several promised to help evict him—*after* work.
Back home, I steeled myself. Watching Anthony and *Margaret* was agony. Worse still, *Edward* was actually seventeen—jobless, education abandoned.
All day, I needled *Margaret* with pointed questions about her past, relishing their flustered exchanges.
That evening’s performance was unforgettable. My friends ejected Anthony, I gave *Margaret* the boot, and Edward was escorted out gently. Then came the satisfying *thud* of Anthony’s belongings hitting the pavement.
As a parting gift, he confessed. *Margaret*—*Lucy*, rather—*was* his mistress. Her husband had thrown her out, and my fool of a husband’s solution was to pass her off as kin.
*“Men make mistakes,”* he pleaded. *“You can’t eat roast beef every day.”*
I’ll survive. I’d not have shared this, but if even *one* woman reads this and knows: somewhere out there, a wife endured her husband bedding his mistress under her mother’s roof—and *won*—then it’s worth it.
Chin up. No problem’s insurmountable. Luck to you.
