Long ago, in a quiet town in England, my husband—Anton, for he was still my lawfully wedded husband then—was not a native of these parts. Years before, he had been sent here for compulsory military service. Once his duty ended, he never returned home. He stayed, first with a woman he met while enlisted, but that came to naught, and they parted ways. He took a small flat, found odd jobs, and ignored the pleas of his family—his mother, two elder brothers, and a sister—who begged him to come back.
Seven years past, our paths crossed. At the time, I lived with my elderly mother—I was a late child, and leaving her alone was unthinkable. Anton accepted this and moved in with us. Though my mother refused to register him officially, so he remained without local papers.
I had a daughter from my first marriage, little Lottie, now nine. Anton and I wed quietly, without fanfare—no grand ceremony, no guests. He was unwell then, unemployed, and there were neither funds nor reason for celebration. I worked tirelessly, sometimes without a day’s rest—my schedule swiftly shifted from “two days on, two off” to “seven on, none at all.”
Anton, meanwhile, stayed home and fixed up the place. My mother and I gave him money from her pension and my wages. He hung wallpaper, retiled floors, replaced doors, redid the plumbing. The ceiling was left to professionals, but the rest? All his handiwork. He and my mother coexisted peacefully—no quarrels, no strife. He kept to his room, my mother shared with Lottie, and I, as ever, was at work.
Beyond my wages, I received child support from my former husband—every penny for Lottie’s needs: meals, clothes, school, clubs, a little set aside for her future, whether for studies or a home. Her father was generous, never failing in his duty. Anton scarcely spoke to her, and I never pressed—she had a father who cared.
We had no children together. I did not wish it.
Now to the heart of it.
A month ago, Anton—employed then for half a year—announced one evening he was stepping out.
“Where to?” I asked.
“My sister,” he said. “She’s coming with her boy. I must fetch them.”
I assumed he’d escort them to an inn or a friend’s, certainly not here. But no. Within the hour, a blonde woman near forty and a lanky youth trailed in behind him.
“I’m Mary,” she said, “and this is my son, William.”
Anton, cool as you please, bade them, “Make yourselves at home,” then fetched their bags.
Struck dumb, I ushered them to tea before cornering Anton.
“Mary’s husband cast her out,” he said flatly. “They’ve nowhere to go. So I brought them here.”
“Marvelous. And you thought to consult me? This is my mother’s house. Where do they sleep?”
His plan was set: Lottie and I would squeeze into my mother’s room, the boy would take Lottie’s, and “sister” Mary—would share his. Just like that. We argued. I proposed sense—the woman and boy together—but he would not bend.
My mother was aghast. “Two days. No more,” she snapped. Then reminded him sharply, “Have you forgotten whose roof this is? You might have asked.”
At that, he erupted.
“I turned this hovel into a palace! Push me, and I’ll sue for my share!”
My mother’s blood pressure soared. I shouted back, but he only snarled,
“Keep at it, and I’ll rip down the wallpaper, smash the tiles!”
That night, Lottie and I bedded down with my mother, while Anton slept with his “sister.” My hands shook with rage.
Come morning, while he dozed, I scoured the web. Signed into a forgotten account, I hunted his true sister—by the surname he’d once dropped. Found her: Mary, a brunette of thirty-five, mother to a boy of fourteen, her page brimming with posts—”Blessed with my love,” “My happy home.” Then who was this blonde?
His mistress.
A scene would’ve been sweet, but I swallowed it. Sent Lottie to school, told her to wait at a friend’s for my call. Mama and I dressed and sought a solicitor.
The law was clear: mere repairs grant no claim to property. He could be removed. Next, the constables—who shrugged. “Unless he breaks something, we shan’t intervene.”
I sent Mama home, filed for divorce, then rang every ally I had. A few stout men agreed to help with the “eviction.” Come evening.
Home again, I steadied my mother. All day, I watched “Mary” and her “son.” The boy—seventeen, untethered to work or school—answered my idle questions about kin and childhood with fumbling lies. Anton and the woman exchanged nervous glances. Disgusting. But I waited.
Then, the final act.
My friends arrived. Anton—out. “Mary”—after him. The boy, gently urged, followed. Their cases landed in the hall. Before I could stop myself, I kicked “Mary” squarely as she fled.
Anton, already beyond the threshold, suddenly crumbled.
“Her name’s Lucy. My mistress. Her husband threw her out. I pitied her. So I… well… erred. Forgive me. Aren’t all men weak? One tires of plain fare!”
Oh, Anton. Foolish man. This was not your house. You were not at the stove. This was my mother’s home. And we scrubbed you clean from it.
Perhaps I’d have kept silent. But let this stand as warning: there was once a woman whose husband smuggled his whore into her mother’s house and tupped her through the wall. That woman did not falter. All mends. Fear nothing. Recall: another’s gall is not your cross. You’ll endure. I did. So shall you.
