Sometimes trouble doesn’t knock—it just waltzes right in. No warning, no drama. Just a bright smile, perfectly done makeup, and a chirpy little, “Oh, you’re not at all what I pictured.” That’s how Tina, my husband’s half-sister—mum’s golden girl—stepped into our lives and nearly drove me to pack my bags and leave.
That evening had started off perfectly normal. For once, I finished work on time, picked up our little girl, Lily, from nursery, and we even stopped by the park. Warm air, kids laughing, that nice kind of tired. By eight, we were home. I’d barely changed when my phone rang—Ethan calling.
“Love, just popping out to meet Tina,” he said, casual as anything.
“Tina?” I frowned. “The half-sister one?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “She’s divorced. Moving here for good.”
All I knew about Tina were snippets from stories. Ten years back, Ethan’s mum, Margaret, had married her dad, and from then on, Tina was practically worshipped in their house. Golden child, perfect little princess. Whether it was her looks or her crocodile tears, she had Margaret wrapped around her finger. Ethan rarely brought her up, so I never pressed. But when he came home close to midnight, hauling a massive suitcase and looking knackered, I knew—life wasn’t going to be the same.
Next day, we went round to meet her. Tina answered the door in pyjamas, smudged eyeliner, and this fake little grin.
“Hello! So you’re Ethan’s wife? Huh. Thought you’d be… never mind.”
Margaret was over the moon, laying out a feast fit for a wedding—roast chicken, pies, the lot. Sat right by Tina, cooing about how hard she’d had it with her ex, how much she “deserved a fresh start.” Then, in the same breath:
“Darling, maybe you could help Tina find work? You must know people.”
And so it began. Ethan spent days ringing round contacts, hunting down jobs. I scoured listings for flats. Eventually, the upstairs neighbours agreed to rent out their one-bed—Ethan even sorted the paperwork. All for poor little Tina, who’d “had such bad luck.”
But then the real nightmare kicked off. Tina at breakfast. Tina at dinner. No car? Ethan became her personal chauffeur. Couldn’t cook? She’d turn up at ours. Once, she strolled in at 9 PM, planted herself in the kitchen, and announced,
“I haven’t eaten, and I’m exhausted. Did you make anything?”
Then came the party—music blasting, neighbours calling the police. The landlords were furious, but somehow Tina sweet-talked her way out of it. Next day, Margaret stormed in, ready to fight.
“How could you neglect her like this? She’s only twenty-four—just 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!” Margaret barked. “This is between me and my son!”
I walked out, but the shouting followed—how we’d “found her a rubbish job,” how we’d “let her down.”
Days later, Tina called in sick. Ethan got sent on grocery runs. They even tried roping me in: “Just tidy up a bit.” I refused. Ethan sulked. Meanwhile, I remembered dragging myself around with flu, cooking soup, scrubbing floors—no one ever rushed to *my* rescue.
Then the landlord gave her notice—more complaints. She lost her job, too. Margaret swooped in, wailing, to whisk her “sunshine” back home. I bit my tongue. One word, and I’d have exploded.
But then—miracle of miracles—a friend invited Tina to Manchester. Margaret was in bits. I nearly cheered. For the first time in months, I could breathe.
Tina left. The chaos went with her. Quiet returned. Peace. And finally, I could be *me* again—a wife, a mum, a person. As for Tina? Let her be someone else’s problem. Just not ours.
