Sometimes trouble arrives without knocking. It doesn’t smash doors or set off alarms. It simply strolls into your life with bright lipstick, a coy smile, and the words, “You’re not at all what I imagined.” That’s how Tina entered our home—my husband Eugene’s half-sister, his mother’s golden child, the woman who nearly drove me to walk away from everything.
That evening had felt ordinary. For the first time in weeks, I’d left work on time, picked up our daughter Lara from nursery, and taken her to the park. Warm air, children laughing, that sweet fatigue of a good day. We returned home by eight. I hadn’t even changed when the phone rang—Eugene’s voice on the other end.
“Love, I’m just heading off to fetch Tina,” he said, calm as ever.
“Tina?” I frowned. “The half-sister?”
“Yes. She’s divorced. Moving here for good.”
I only knew Tina from stories. Ten years ago, her father had married Eugene’s mother, Tatyana Arkadyevna. Since then, Tina had been treated like royalty. My mother-in-law worshipped her—whether for her looks or her knack for timely tears, I didn’t know. Eugene rarely spoke of her, so I never pried. But when he came home past midnight, lugging a massive suitcase, exhaustion in his smile, I knew our lives would never be the same.
The next day, we went to meet her. Tina answered the door in pyjamas, smudged eyeliner, and a practiced grin.
“Hello! So, you’re Eugene’s wife? Hmm… Not what I pictured, but never mind.”
My mother-in-law, glowing with joy, had laid out a feast fit for a wedding—roast chicken, pies, pickles. She perched beside Tina, murmuring about how hard the poor girl’s life had been, how she “deserved a fresh start,” then casually dropped, “Darling, perhaps you could help Tina find work? You must have connections.”
And so it began. Eugene scrambled, calling contacts, hunting vacancies. I scoured listings for flats. In the end, we found a one-bedroom upstairs—persuaded the landlords, helped with paperwork. All for the “poor girl” life had treated so unfairly.
Then the nightmare truly started. Tina every morning. Tina every evening. No car? Eugene became her chauffeur. Too lazy to cook? She’d appear at ours. One evening, she strolled into the kitchen at nine and declared, “I haven’t eaten, and I’m exhausted. Did you make anything?”
She threw parties, blaring music until the neighbours called the police. The landlords were furious, but somehow Tina wriggled out of it. The next day, my mother-in-law stormed in, eyes blazing.
“Couldn’t you keep an eye on her? She’s only twenty-four—still a child!”
“Sorry,” I snapped, “but we didn’t sign up to be her babysitters. We helped. The rest is on her.”
“I wasn’t talking to you!” she barked. “This is between me and my son!”
I left the room but heard the shouting through the wall—how we’d “found her a bad job,” how we’d “failed to protect” her.
Days later, Tina called in sick. Eugene raced to buy her groceries. I was roped in too—”Clean her flat, tidy up.” I refused. He sulked. Meanwhile, I remembered nursing a fever alone, cooking soup, scrubbing floors—no one rushing to my aid.
Then the neighbours complained again, and the landlords demanded she leave. She lost her job—more complaints. My mother-in-law arrived, weeping, to whisk her “precious girl” home, cursing everyone in her path. I stayed silent. One word, and I’d explode.
Then, a miracle. Tina’s friend lured her away—this time to Edinburgh. My mother-in-law fretted. I nearly cheered. For the first time in months, I breathed freely.
Tina was gone. The chaos left with her. The quiet returned. The peace. And I could be myself again—wife, mother, woman. Let her torment someone else now. Just not us.
