My soon-to-be ex-husband hails from another town. Years ago, he was sent here for compulsory military service. After finishing, he never went back home—instead, he stayed. He moved in with a girl he’d met during his time in the army.
It didn’t work out. They split, and Anthony rented a flat and carried on working. His family—his mother, two brothers, and an older sister—wanted him to come back, but he refused.
Seven years ago, Anthony and I met. I have an elderly mother—I was a late child—and I couldn’t possibly leave her. Anthony agreed and moved in with us. When he asked to be put on the tenancy, my mother refused outright, so he lived here unofficially.
Besides my mother, I have a child from my first marriage—my daughter, Lillian, or Lily, as we call her. She’s nine now.
After a year together, we married. Just a registry office affair. Anthony had health problems at the time and wasn’t working. We didn’t have the money for a big wedding, and we didn’t want one anyway.
While he was at home, Anthony did up my mother’s flat. She and I—her from her pension, me from my wages—gave him money for supplies, and he redid everything himself. Wallpaper, interior doors, the kitchen and bathroom tiles—the works. The suspended ceiling was done by professionals, though.
Mum got on with Anthony—they never argued. He had his own room, and Mum shared hers with Lily in the evenings and on weekends. I was supposed to work two days on, two days off, but I rarely had weekends—I picked up as many shifts as I could to keep us afloat.
Apart from my wages, I had another income—maintenance payments. But that money was only for Lily. Half went on essentials—clothes, nursery fees, then school, uniforms, books, extra classes. The rest I saved for her future—for university or a small flat. Her father wasn’t stingy, so by the time she turned eighteen, there should be enough.
Anthony barely interacted with Lily. I never expected my current husband to take on my child—she already has a father who spends time with her. So I didn’t push for closeness.
That’s the backstory. We didn’t have children together—I didn’t want any.
Then, a month ago, it happened. Anthony—who’d started working six months prior—got ready to go out one evening. When I asked where, he said:
*”My sister and nephew are visiting. I need to meet them.”*
I assumed they were staying with friends or at a hotel. It never crossed my mind he’d bring them here. But he did.
Behind him walked in a blonde woman in her forties and a lanky lad of about eighteen.
*”I’m Margaret,”* she said. *”This is Simon, my son.”*
Anthony, cool as anything, ushered them in and went back to the car for their bags. I sat them down for tea and pulled Anthony aside.
*”Margaret’s husband left her. She’s got nowhere to go, so I invited her here.”*
*”Why didn’t you ask me? This is Mum’s house—you should’ve talked to her too. And where are they supposed to sleep?”*
His solution was simple. Mum’s place had three bedrooms—one for her, one for us, one for Lily. So now, Lily and I were to move in with Mum. Simon would take Lily’s room. And Margaret would stay with Anthony.
We argued. Why couldn’t Simon and his mother share a room? But Anthony wouldn’t budge.
Mum wasn’t thrilled either. She made it clear: *”Two days max. And you should’ve asked—am I not the homeowner anymore?”*
Anthony exploded.
*”I turned this dump into a palace! Keep this up, and 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, threatening to rip up the tiles and tear down the wallpaper if we didn’t comply.
That night, Mum, Lily, and I shared a room. Simon slept in Lily’s bed. Anthony got his way—he stayed with *Margaret*. After years of doing nothing, now he fancied himself lord of the manor.
The next morning, while he was asleep, I dug online. I’d never used social media before, but I signed up—Anthony had once mentioned his sister shared a surname with some distant relatives of mine.
What I found made my stomach drop. His real sister, Margaret, was thirty-five, brunette, with a fourteen-year-old son named Simon. Her profile was full of posts like *”Love my husband”* and *”Happy family.”* So who the hell was this woman in my house? There was only one answer: his mistress.
I bit down the urge to scream at him. Instead, I sent Lily to school with instructions to wait at a friend’s until I called. Then Mum and I went to a solicitor. The consultation was a relief—cosmetic renovations didn’t entitle Anthony to a share. Structural changes would have, but we were safe.
The police weren’t helpful. *”Call us if he trashes the place,”* they said.
I dropped Mum home, filed for divorce, and rang a few male friends. Several agreed to help evict him—after work.
Back home, I kept my cool, watching *Margaret* and Simon squirm under pointed questions about their past. The boy wasn’t eighteen, just seventeen—no job, no school.
That evening, everything exploded. My friends dragged Anthony out. I made sure *Margaret* got an earful—and a shove. Simon, we handled gently. His things followed Anthony’s out the door.
By the end, Anthony confessed. *Margaret*—actually, Lucy—was his mistress. Her husband had kicked her out, and my brilliant husband had brought her here, passing her off as family.
*”I messed up,”* he whined. *”But all men stray—you can’t eat roast beef every day.”*
I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t even be telling you this, except I want every woman out there to know: somewhere, a wife found her husband’s mistress in her mother’s house—and still didn’t break. If she could survive that, you’ll survive anything. There’s always a way. Chin up.
