My husband, for now at least, hails from another town. Long ago, he was sent here for compulsory military service. When his duty ended, he didn’t return home but settled in this place. After his service, he moved in with a girl he’d met during his time in the army.
It didn’t work out—they went their separate ways. Anthony rented a flat and carried on working. His family back home—his mother, two older brothers, and a sister—kept asking him to return, but he never did.
Seven years ago, Anthony and I met. I’m a late child, with an elderly mother to care for, and I couldn’t leave her under any circumstances. Anthony agreed to this and moved in with us. When he asked to be put on the tenancy, my mother refused outright, so he lived here unofficially, still registered elsewhere.
Besides my mother, I have a daughter from my first marriage—Larissa, or Lara for short. She’s nine now.
A year into living together, we got married—just a quick registry office affair. Anthony had health troubles at the time and wasn’t working. We couldn’t afford a proper wedding, not that we wanted anything lavish.
While he was home, Anthony did up my mother’s flat. Mum and I—her from her pension, me from my wages—gave him money for materials, and he did the work himself. Wallpaper, new interior doors, retiling in the kitchen and bathroom—a combined one, mind you. The stretch ceiling was done by professionals, though.
Mum got on with Anthony, no quarrels between them. He had his own room; Mum shared with Lara in the evenings and on weekends. I worked shifts—two on, two off—though I rarely took my days off, picking up extra shifts to keep us afloat.
Aside from my wages, I had one other income: child support. But that money was strictly for Lara—half for the essentials—clothes, nursery fees, then school, uniform, books, and extracurriculars—the other half saved for her future, either education or a small flat. Her father wasn’t stingy, so by the time she came of age, there should be enough.
I’ll say this—Anthony hardly ever spoke to Lara. I never foisted my child on him. And she has her own dad who spends time with her. So I never pushed for closeness.
Now, the trouble. A month ago, Anthony—who’d been working for six months—got ready to go out one evening. When I asked where, he said:
“My sister and her son are visiting. Need to meet them.”
I assumed they were staying with friends or in a hotel. Never crossed my mind he’d bring them *here*. But he did.
Behind him walked in a blonde woman, about 40, with a lad of 18 or 19. “I’m Mary,” she said. “This is my son, William.”
Anthony, cool as you like, invited them in and went back to the car for the bags.
I sat them down for tea and pulled Anthony aside.
“Mary’s husband left her. She’s got nowhere to stay—I invited them here.” He dropped it like it was nothing.
“Why didn’t you ask me? This is Mum’s flat—you should’ve spoken to her too. And where are they even sleeping?”
His plan was simple. Mum’s flat has three rooms: one for her, one for us, one for Lara. Well, *I* was to move in with Mum and Lara. William would take Lara’s room, and Mary—would share with Anthony.
We argued. Why couldn’t William stay with his mother in Lara’s room? But Anthony dug his heels in.
Mum wasn’t thrilled. She made it clear—two days, max. Then she tore into Anthony: “You should’ve asked. Do I not run this place anymore?”
Anthony flipped. “I turned this dump into a palace! Keep pushing, and I’ll take you to court for my share!”
Mum was stunned—her blood pressure shot up. I argued, but he wouldn’t budge, threatening to rip up the tiles and tear down the wallpaper if we crossed him.
That night, Mum, Lara, and I crammed into one room. William slept in Lara’s bed, and Anthony—well, he got what he wanted. The nerve of it—years of lazing about, now acting like lord of the manor.
Come morning, while Anthony snored, I tracked down his *real* sister, Mary, on social media—same name, same surname, same son’s name. But the Mary on the screen was a 35-year-old brunette, mother to a 14-year-old William, her profile plastered with “Love my husband” and “Happy family” posts.
So who the hell had he brought home?
The answer hit me like a brick. Mistress.
I kept calm. Sent Lara to school with orders to wait at a friend’s until I called. Then Mum and I saw a solicitor. The news was good—cosmetic renovations don’t earn you a share in a property.
The police were less helpful. “Come back when there’s actual damage.”
After filing for divorce, I rang a few male friends. By evening, they’d help me toss him out.
Back home, I soothed Mum, then grilled “Mary.” Turns out “William” was 17, jobless, school-less. Watching them squirm under my questions was perversely satisfying.
The evening’s theatrics were unforgettable. My friends ejected Anthony. I made sure Mary—Luba, really—got a shove on her way out. The lad was gently escorted. Then Anthony’s belongings sailed into the hallway.
As a parting gift, he confessed. “Mary” was Luba, his mistress, booted out by her husband. His brilliant solution? Pass her off as his sister and move her in. He even pleaded—claiming all men stray, that he’d made a mistake, that “you can’t eat roast beef every day.”
Me? I’ll survive. I wouldn’t even be telling this, except—ladies, take note. There’s a woman out there whose husband moved his mistress into his mother-in-law’s flat and slept with her while his wife lay one room over. And that woman? She didn’t crumble. So neither should you. No problem’s unsolvable. Chin up.
