My husband, for the time being at least, hails from another town. Years ago, he was posted here for mandatory service and, after finishing, decided to stay rather than return home. Post-service, he moved in with a girl he’d met while enlisted.
That didn’t pan out—they split. Anton rented a flat and carried on working. His family back home—his mum, two older brothers, and sister—kept asking him to return, but he never did.
Anton and I met seven years ago. I’ve got an elderly mother—I was a late-in-life baby—and leaving her simply wasn’t an option. Anton was fine with that and moved in with us. When he asked to be put on the tenancy, Mum flat-out refused. So there he stayed, officially still registered elsewhere.
Aside from Mum, I’ve got a child from my first marriage—my daughter, Lauren, or Laurie, as we call her. She’s nine now.
After a year together, we got married. Just a quick registry office job. Anton had health issues at the time, so he wasn’t working. A fancy wedding was out of the question, not that we wanted one.
While Anton was home, he renovated Mum’s flat. Between her pension and my wages, we funded the materials, and he did the work—repapering walls, replacing interior doors, re-tiling the kitchen and bathroom (yes, it’s a combined one). We even got a fancy suspended ceiling installed—though professionals handled that bit.
Mum and Anton got on fine, no squabbles. He had his room, she shared hers with Laurie evenings and weekends. I worked what was meant to be two days on, two days off, but I took extra shifts whenever I could to keep us afloat.
Besides my salary, there’s child support. That money’s strictly for Laurie—half for immediate needs (clothes, school fees, uniforms, books, extracurriculars) and half saved for her future, whether uni or a modest flat. Her dad’s not stingy, so by the time she’s eighteen, there’ll be enough.
Now, Anton hardly interacted with Laurie. I never expected my current husband to parent her—she’s got a father who spends time with her. So bonding wasn’t something I pushed for.
That’s the backstory. No kids together—I didn’t want any.
Then, a month ago, drama struck. Anton (who’d been working for six months) announced one evening he was off somewhere. When I asked where, he said, *”My sister and nephew are visiting. Need to fetch them.”*
I assumed they’d booked a hotel or were staying with friends. The idea that Anton would bring them *here* didn’t cross my mind. But he did.
In walked a fair-haired woman about 40 with a lanky 18-year-old lad. *”I’m Mary,”* she said, *”and this is my son, Simon.”* Anton, breezy as you please, ushered them in and ducked out to grab their bags from the car.
I sat them down for tea and dragged Anton aside.
*”Mary’s husband left her. She’s got nowhere to go, so I invited her here,”* he declared, as if discussing the weather.
*”You couldn’t ask me first? It’s Mum’s flat—you should’ve talked to her too. And where exactly are they sleeping?”*
Anton’s solution? Mum’s place has three bedrooms: hers, ours, and Laurie’s. Simple—Laurie and I would bunk with Mum, Simon would take Laurie’s room, and Mary would move in with *him*.
We rowed. Why couldn’t Simon and his mother share Laurie’s room? Anton dug his heels in.
Mum was less than thrilled. She made it clear they could stay *two days*, max, and snapped, *”Since when do you make decisions here?”* Anton blew up: *”I turned this dump into a palace! Push me, and I’ll sue for a share!”*
Mum was gobsmacked, her blood pressure spiking. I argued, but Anton threatened to rip up the tiles and tear down the wallpaper if we crossed him.
That night, Mum, Laurie, and I shared a room. Simon slept in Laurie’s bed, while Anton cozied up with his “sister.” The sheer audacity—years of unemployment, and now he fancies himself lord of the manor?
Come morning, while Anton snoozed, I dug into social media (signed up just for this—never used it before). Piecing together hints Anton had dropped, I found his *real* sister, Mary: 35, brunette, mother to 14-year-old Simon, flooding her feed with *”Love my husband!”* posts.
So who *was* this woman? The answer was obvious: a mistress.
I didn’t lose it—not yet. I sent Laurie to school with instructions to wait at a friend’s until I called. Then Mum and I lawyered up. Relief—cosmetic renovations don’t grant property rights. Had it been structural, we’d have been in trouble.
The police? Useless. *”Call us when he trashes the place.”*
I filed for divorce, rallied a few blokes to help evict Anton that evening, then headed home.
“Simon” was actually 17, jobless and out of school. All day, I grilled “Mary” about her childhood, relishing the flustered glances between her and Anton as their story unraveled.
The eviction was glorious. Friends tossed Anton out, I gave “Mary” a piece of my mind (and a shove), and the lad was politely shown the door. Suitcases followed, tumbling down the stairwell.
Anton’s parting confession? *”Mary” was Lucy—his mistress. Her husband had kicked her out, and Anton’s brilliant solution was to pass her off as family. His excuse? *”Men stray—you can’t eat roast beef every day!”*
I’ll survive. Normally, I wouldn’t share this, but if any readers need hope: somewhere out there, a woman’s husband smuggled his mistress into his mother-in-law’s flat and slept with her while his wife was *down the hall*. And that woman handled it. So can you. No problem’s unsolvable. Chin up!
