Sometimes trouble doesn’t knock before it walks right in. It doesn’t break down doors or sound alarms. It just strolls into your life with bright lipstick, a coy smile, and a comment like, “Well, 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 one who nearly drove me to walk away from everything.
That evening started like any other. For the first time in weeks, I left work on time, picked up our daughter Laura from nursery, and took her to the park. Warm air, children’s laughter, the pleasant exhaustion of a full day. We got home around eight. I barely had time to change before Eugene called.
“Love, I’m off to fetch Tina,” he said, as if it were nothing.
“Tina?” I frowned. “That half-sister of yours?”
“Yeah. She’s divorced. Moving here for good.”
I only knew Tina from stories. Ten years ago, her father married Eugene’s mum, Janet. Since then, Tina had been treated like royalty in their home. His mother worshipped her—maybe for her looks, maybe because she knew just when to turn on the tears. Eugene never spoke much about her, and I never pushed. But when he came home after midnight lugging a massive suitcase, exhausted but smiling, 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 forced grin.
“Hi! So you’re Eugene’s wife? Huh. I thought you’d be… never mind.”
Janet, beaming, had laid out a feast fit for a banquet—pickles, roast chicken, pies. She sat beside Tina, cooing about how hard life had been for her, how cruel her ex-husband was, how she “deserved a fresh start.” Then, casually:
“Sweetheart, maybe you could help Tina find work? You must have connections.”
And so it began. Eugene scrambled, calling contacts, hunting for jobs. I scouted flats. Eventually, the upstairs neighbours agreed to rent out their one-bed—we talked them into it. Eugene even helped with paperwork. All for poor Tina, who’d “had such bad luck.”
Then the nightmare really started. Tina in the morning. Tina in the evening. No car? Eugene became her chauffeur. Too lazy to cook? She’d show up at ours. Once, she marched into the kitchen at nine PM and announced,
“I’m starving, and I’ve had the worst day. Did you make anything?”
Another time, she threw a raucous party, blaring music until the neighbours called the police. The landlords were furious, but Tina somehow talked her way out of it. The next day, Janet stormed in for a showdown:
“Couldn’t you keep an eye on her? She’s only twenty-four—practically 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 asking you!” Janet barked. “I’m talking to my son!”
I walked out but heard the shouting through the wall—how we’d found her a “rubbish job,” how we’d “failed” her.
Days later, Tina called in sick. Eugene was sent to fetch her groceries. Then came the ask: “Pop round and tidy up.” I refused. He sulked. Meanwhile, I remembered scrubbing floors with a fever—no one ever rushed to my aid.
Then more complaints piled up. The landlords demanded she leave. She lost her job—too many grievances. Janet swooped in to collect her “sunshine,” weeping and cursing the world. I bit my tongue. One word, and I’d explode.
But a fortnight later, a miracle: Tina’s friend invited her to Manchester. Janet fretted. I nearly cheered. For the first time in months, I breathed freely.
Tina left. And with her went the chaos. Quiet returned. Peace. And I could finally be myself again—a wife, a mother, a woman. Let her make someone else’s life hell. Just not ours.
