**The Mistress Posing as a Sister: How My Husband Turned My Mother’s House into a Circus**
Anthony—my soon-to-be ex-husband—isn’t from around here. Years ago, he was drafted for national service and posted to our town. When his service ended, he never went back. He stayed. At first, he lived with a girlfriend he’d met in the army, but it didn’t work out, and they split. He rented a flat, picked up odd jobs, and ignored his family—his mother, two older brothers, and a sister—who kept asking him to come home.
Anthony and I met seven years ago. Back then, I lived with my elderly mum—I was a late-in-life child, and I couldn’t leave her alone under any circumstances. Anthony agreed to that and moved in with us. Mum, however, refused to register him at our address right away. So he lived with us, officially registered elsewhere.
I have a daughter from my first marriage, Charlotte—she’s nine now. Anthony and I only registered our marriage—no big wedding, no guests. At the time, he had health issues, wasn’t working, and there was no money or point in a celebration. Meanwhile, I worked, sometimes barely taking a day off—my “two days on, two days off” schedule quickly turned into “seven days on, zero days off.”
Anthony spent his time at home doing renovations. Mum and I gave him money—from her pension and my salary. He put up wallpaper, replaced tiles, doors, and redid the plumbing. Professionals did the suspended ceiling, but the rest was all his work. His relationship with Mum was civil—no fights, no arguments. He lived in one room, Mum shared with Charlotte, and I, as usual, was at work.
On top of my salary, I receive child support from my ex. That money goes strictly to Charlotte—food, clothes, school, extracurriculars, with a little set aside for her future, like housing or education. Her father isn’t stingy; he helps regularly. Anthony barely interacted with her, and I didn’t push it—Charlotte already has a dad involved in her life.
Anthony and I didn’t have children together. I didn’t want any.
Now, to the heart of the matter.
A month ago, Anthony—who had been working steady for six months by then—was getting ready to go out one evening. I asked, “Where?”
“My sister and nephew are visiting. Need to meet them.”
I assumed he’d meet them, and they’d stay at a hotel or with friends—definitely not here. But no. An hour later, he walked in with a blonde woman around forty and a teenage boy. The woman said, “I’m Mary, this is my son, William.”
Anthony, as if this were perfectly normal, told them, “Make yourselves at home,” and went to fetch their bags.
I was stunned. I sat the “guests” down for tea and then cornered Anthony. He calmly explained, “Mary’s husband left her, they’ve got nowhere to live. I brought them here.”
“Lovely. And you didn’t think to ask me? This is Mum’s house. Where are they sleeping?”
He’d already decided: Charlotte and I would move into Mum’s room, the teenager would take Charlotte’s room, and his “sister” Mary—would share his. Just like that. We argued. I suggested the logical option—Mary and her son could share a room—but Anthony wouldn’t budge.
Mum was horrified. She put her foot down: “Two days, max.” Then reminded him, “Have you forgotten who owns this place? You should’ve asked.”
He exploded. “I turned this dump into a palace! Push me, and I’ll take you to court—demand a share!”
Mum’s blood pressure spiked. I jumped in, but he just threatened, “Keep pushing me, and I’ll rip the wallpaper off and smash the tiles!”
That night, Charlotte and I slept in Mum’s room while Anthony shared his with his “sister.” I was shaking with rage.
In the morning, while he slept, I checked social media. I created an account and searched for his actual sister—using the surname he’d once mentioned. I found her. The real Mary was a brunette, 35, with a 14-year-old son, and her profile was full of posts like, “I love my husband,” “Blessed with my little family.” So who was this blonde?
Obviously—his mistress. And suddenly, it all made sense. My first instinct was to make a scene, but I held back. I sent Charlotte to school with instructions to wait at a friend’s house until I called. Then Mum and I dressed and went to see a solicitor.
The solicitor reassured us: cosmetic renovations don’t give him any legal claim to the house. Meaning—we could kick him out. After that, we went to the police. They, unfortunately, shrugged: “We can’t intervene unless he breaks something.”
I sent Mum home, stopped by the courthouse to file for divorce, then called a few friends. Several men agreed to help with the “eviction” that evening.
When I got back, I calmed Mum down. I spent the day watching “Mary” and her “son.” The boy was actually seventeen, neither in school nor working. I played naive, asking about their childhood, school, shared relatives. They and Anthony kept exchanging nervous glances, tripping over their stories. It was disgusting. But I waited.
That evening was the final act of this absurd farce.
My friends arrived. Anthony—out the door. “Mary”—right behind him. The teenager was calmly told to leave. Suitcases—hauled into the hallway. At the last second, I lost it and gave “Mary” a sharp kick out the door.
Anthony, now outside, suddenly started groveling. “Fine, yes, it’s Lucy. My mistress. Her husband kicked her out. I felt sorry for her. So I… messed up. Forgive me. We men are all like this—can’t eat boiled potatoes forever!”
Oh, Anthony. You forgot one thing—this wasn’t your house. And the potatoes weren’t on your stove. It was my mother’s place. And we just scrubbed you right out of it.
I might’ve kept quiet about it. But let this be a reminder to all women: somewhere out there is a woman whose husband brought his mistress into her mother’s house and slept with her under the same roof. And that woman didn’t give up. Things will get better. The key is not to be afraid. And remember—someone else’s audacity isn’t your burden to bear. You’ll manage. I did. And you will too.
