The Mistress Masquerading as a Sister: How My Husband Turned My Mother’s Home into a Circus
Anton—still technically my husband—isn’t from here. Years ago, he was posted in our town for mandatory service. Once his duty ended, he never left. He stayed. At first, he lived with a girl he met in the army, but it didn’t work out. They split. He rented a flat, took odd jobs, and ignored his family—his mother, two older brothers, and a sister—who kept begging him to come home.
Anton and I met seven years ago. Back then, I lived with my elderly mother—I was a late-in-life child, and I couldn’t leave her alone under any circumstances. Anton accepted that and moved in with us. Mum, however, refused to register him officially. So he lived with us as an outsider, never fully part of the household.
I have a daughter from my first marriage, Lottie, now nine. Anton and I just signed the papers—no grand wedding, no guests. At the time, he had health issues, wasn’t working, and there was neither money nor reason for a celebration. I worked relentlessly, often without weekends—my two-days-on, two-off schedule quickly turned into seven-on, zero-off.
Meanwhile, Anton stayed home, renovating. Mum and I funded it—from her pension and my wages. He put up wallpaper, retiled, replaced doors, rewired the plumbing. Professionals handled the ceiling, but the rest was all him. He and Mum got along—no fights, no tension. He had his room, Mum shared with Lottie, and I was always at work.
On top of my salary, I received child support from my ex. That money was strictly for Lottie—food, clothes, school, clubs, a little saved for her future—uni or a flat. Her father wasn’t stingy; he helped consistently. Anton barely interacted with her. I never forced it—Lottie already had a father in her life.
We never had children together. I didn’t want to.
Now, the heart of it.
A month ago, Anton—who’d been working for half a year—announced he was going out. I asked, “Where?”
“My sister and nephew are visiting. Need to meet them.”
Fine, I thought. He’d pick them up, they’d stay at a hotel or with friends—certainly not with us. Wrong. An hour later, a blonde woman in her forties walked in with a lanky teen. “I’m Marie,” she said. “This is my son, William.”
Anton, unfazed, gestured. “Make yourself at home.” Then he went to fetch their bags.
I stood frozen. I sat the “guests” down for tea, then cornered Anton. He was calm. “Marie’s husband left her. They’ve got nowhere to stay. So I brought them here.”
“Lovely. And you didn’t think to ask *me*? This is *Mum’s* house. Where are they sleeping?”
He’d already decided: Lottie and I would move into Mum’s room, William would take Lottie’s, and “sister” Marie—would share *his*. Just like that. We argued. I suggested the obvious—mother and son could stay together. Anton refused.
Mum was stunned. “Two days, maximum,” she hissed. Then she reminded him, “Have you forgotten whose house this is? You could’ve at least asked.”
He exploded. “I turned this dump into a palace! Push me, and I’ll sue for a share of the flat!”
Mum’s blood pressure spiked. I snapped back, but he only snarled, “Keep this up, and I’ll rip off the wallpaper, smash the tiles!”
That night, Lottie and I slept in Mum’s room while Anton shared his with “Marie.” I trembled with rage.
At dawn, while he slept, I scoured social media. I found his *actual* sister—Marie, a brunette, 35, with a 14-year-old son. Her profile overflowed with posts: “Love my husband,” “Happy family…” So who was this blonde?
Obviously—his mistress. The pieces clicked. My first instinct was to scream, but I swallowed it. I sent Lottie to school, told her to wait at a friend’s until I called. Mum and I dressed and went straight to a solicitor.
The consultation was a relief: renovations didn’t entitle him to ownership. Legally, we could evict him. Next stop—the police. They shrugged. “Unless he breaks something, we can’t intervene.”
I sent Mum home, filed for divorce, then rang every friend I had. A few men agreed to help “move” him out. Tonight.
Back home, I soothed Mum. All day, I watched “Marie” and her “son.” William was 17, jobless, out of school. I played naive, asking about family, school. They faltered. Anton’s glances were frantic. It was nauseating. But I waited.
Then—the final act.
My friends arrived. Anton—out the door. “Marie”—right behind. William was politely shown the exit. Suitcases dumped in the hallway. I cracked—I shoved “Marie” hard.
Anton, already outside, crumbled. “Fine, yes—it’s Lisa. My mistress. Her husband kicked her out. I felt sorry for her. I—I messed up. But come on, all men do this! You can’t eat boiled potatoes every day!”
Oh, Anton. You forgot one thing. This wasn’t *your* home. And you weren’t at the stove. You were in *my mother’s* flat. And now—you’re gone.
I might’ve kept this quiet. But let this be a warning: there’s a woman out there whose husband smuggled his mistress into her *mother’s house* and slept with her one room over. And that woman fought back.
You’ll be fine. Just don’t be afraid. Remember—someone else’s shamelessness isn’t your burden to bear. You’ll handle it. *I* did. And you will too.
