My now ex-husband hailed from another town long ago. Back in his youth, he’d been sent here for compulsory military service. Once his duty ended, he never returned home but settled instead in our city. During his service, he’d met a girl and moved in with her afterward.
It didn’t last—they parted ways. Anthony rented a flat and carried on with his work. His family back home—his mother, two brothers, and elder sister—pleaded for his return, but he refused.
I met Anthony seven years past. My own mother was elderly; I was her late-born child, and abandoning her was impossible. Anthony understood and moved into our home. When he asked to be put on the lease, my mother refused outright, so he lived with us as an unregistered tenant.
Beyond my mother, I had a child from my first marriage—my daughter, Eleanor, or Nell, as we called her. She’s nine now.
After a year together, we married—just a quiet registry office affair. Anthony had been unwell then, out of work. We had no money for a proper wedding, nor did we want one.
While he stayed home, he fixed up my mother’s flat. She and I—she from her pension, I from my wages—gave him funds for materials, and he laboured with his own hands. Wallpaper was stripped, interior doors replaced, kitchen and bathroom tiles relaid—the water closet being a shared one. He even arranged for a fitted ceiling, though professionals handled that.
Mother and Anthony got on well enough; they seldom quarrelled. He had his own room, while she shared with Nell in the evenings and on weekends. I worked a supposed two-on-two-off rota, yet free days were rare—I took every extra shift to keep us fed.
Beyond my wages, I had maintenance payments from Nell’s father. That money went solely to her—some for immediate needs: clothes, nursery fees, later school uniforms, books, and tuition. The rest I set aside for her future—whether for university or a modest flat. Her father wasn’t tight-fisted; by her eighteenth birthday, there’d be enough.
I should say Anthony scarcely spoke to Nell. I never foisted my child upon him—she had her own father, after all. So I never pressed for affection between them.
That, in short, was how things stood. We had no children together—I hadn’t wanted any.
Then, a month ago, it happened. Anthony—who’d found work half a year prior—announced one evening he was going out. When I asked where, he replied, “My sister and nephew are visiting. I must meet them.”
I assumed they’d booked lodgings or stayed with friends. But no—he brought them straight to us.
Behind him stepped in a fair-haired woman of about forty with a youth of eighteen or so. “I’m Mary,” she said, “and this is Vincent, my son.”
Anthony, cool as you please, ushered them inside before ducking back out to fetch their bags. I served tea, then called him aside.
“Mary’s husband left her. She’s nowhere to go, so I invited her here,” he declared, as though it were settled.
“Why wasn’t I consulted? This is Mother’s house—she ought to have been asked! And where will they sleep?”
His solution was simple. Mother’s place had three rooms: hers, ours, and Nell’s. Now, Nell and I were to bunk with Mother. Vincent would take Nell’s room; Mary would share with Anthony.
We argued. Why couldn’t mother and son room together? But he dug in.
Mother was livid. Two days—that was all she’d tolerate. “Was my permission worthless?” she snapped. Anthony erupted: “I turned this dump into a palace! Push me, and I’ll sue for a share!”
Mother went white, her blood pressure soaring. I fought him, but he threatened to rip up the tiles and tear down the wallpaper if thwarted.
That night, Mother, Nell, and I shared a bed. Vincent slept in Nell’s room; Anthony with his “sister.” The gall—years idle, now fancying himself lord of the manor!
Come morning, while he slept, I hunted online. I’d never used social media before, but I signed up, recalling Anthony once mentioning his sister shared a surname with distant kin of mine.
I found her—Mary, his true sister: a dark-haired thirty-five-year-old mother of a fourteen-year-old Vincent. Her profile brimmed with posts about her loving husband and happy home.
So who was this imposter? The answer glared—his mistress.
Cold fury steadied me. I sent Nell to school with orders to wait at a friend’s, then took Mother to a solicitor. The verdict soothed us: cosmetic repairs granted no property claim. Had it been structural, we’d have been sunk.
The police shrugged us off: “Come back when there’s damage.”
After filing for divorce, I rang male friends. Several agreed to help evict him—after work.
Home again, I soothed Mother. Facing Anthony and “Mary” was unbearable. Worse, “Vincent” was seventeen—unemployed, unschooled.
All day, I needled “Mary” about her past, relishing their fumbling lies. I bided my time.
The evening’s drama stays etched in memory—friends bundling Anthony out, me landing a shove on his “sister,” the lad coaxed gently away. His belongings soon followed, hurled into the stairwell.
At the door, Anthony cracked. “Mary” was Lucy—his mistress. Her husband had thrown her out, and my fool of a husband brought her here, passing her off as kin. He pleaded, spouting nonsense about men’s nature and “not living on potatoes forever.”
I’ll endure. I’d not have shared this tale, save to say: Somewhere, a woman’s husband bedded his mistress under her mother’s roof while she slept next door. That woman fought back. And so can you. No trouble lasts forever. Luck to you all.
