Sometimes trouble doesn’t knock—it just waltzes in. No warning, no broken doors. Just a bright smile, a flutter of eyelashes, and a cheery, “Oh, you’re nothing like I imagined!” That’s how Tina—my husband Ethan’s half-sister, his mum’s golden girl—strolled into our lives and nearly drove me to walk away from everything.
That evening started like any other. For once, I’d actually left work on time, picked up our little girl, Mia, from nursery, and took her to the park. Warm air, kids laughing, that happy kind of exhaustion. We got home around eight. I’d barely changed when the phone rang—Ethan.
“Love, just popping out to pick up Tina,” he said, calm as you like.
“Tina?” I frowned. “The half-sister?”
“Yeah. She’s divorced. Moving here for good.”
I only knew Tina from stories. Ten years back, her dad had married Ethan’s mum, Margaret. From then on, Tina was practically worshipped in their house. Margaret doted on her—maybe it was the looks, or the way she could turn on the waterworks. Ethan never went on about her, and I never asked. But when he came home near midnight, hauling a massive suitcase with a tired smile, I knew—life would never be the same.
Next day, we went to meet her. Tina answered the door in pyjamas, eyeliner smudged, with this fake little grin.
“Hi! So, you’re Ethan’s wife? Huh. Not what I expected.”
Margaret had laid on a feast fit for a wedding—roast chicken, pies, pickles. She kept fussing over Tina, going on about how tired she must be, how awful her ex was, how she “deserved a fresh start.” Then, casual as anything, dropped in:
“Darling, maybe you could help Tina find work? You must have connections.”
And so it began. Ethan scrambled, ringing round for jobs, calling in favours. I hunted for flats. In the end, we talked the upstairs neighbours into renting her their one-bed. Ethan even sorted her paperwork—all for poor little Tina, who’d “had such bad luck.”
Then the real nightmare started. Morning? Tina. Evening? Tina. No car? Ethan became her personal taxi. Couldn’t be bothered to cook? Rocked up at ours. Might saunter in at 9 PM, plant herself in the kitchen, and announce:
“I’m starving, and I’ve had the worst day. You lot made anything?”
Once, she threw a party, music blaring, neighbours called the police. The landlords were livid, but somehow Tina talked her way out. Next day, Margaret stormed in for a showdown:
“What were you thinking, leaving her alone? 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.”
“Nobody asked you!” Margaret 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 “let her down.”
Days later, Tina called in sick. Ethan got sent to fetch her groceries. They tried roping me in too—”Just tidy up a bit, love.” I refused. Ethan sulked. Meanwhile, I remembered cooking soups and scrubbing floors with a fever—and no one lifting a finger.
Then the neighbours complained again, and the landlords gave Tina the boot. She lost her job too—no shock there. Margaret swooped in, wailing, to rescue her “sunshine,” cursing everyone in sight. I watched, biting my tongue. One word, and I’d explode.
But then—a miracle. Tina’s mate invited her to Manchester. Margaret fretted, wrung her hands. Me? I nearly did a happy dance. For the first time in months, I breathed easy.
Tina left. And with her went the chaos. The quiet settled back in. The peace. I could finally be myself again—a wife, a mum, a person. And Tina? Well, let her make someone else’s life hell. Just not ours.
