Tom is my soon-to-be ex-husband. He’s not originally from here. Years ago, he was posted to our town for military service. When his duty ended, he never went back home. He stayed. At first, he lived with a girl he met in the army, but it didn’t work out—they split. Tom rented a flat, took odd jobs, and ignored his family—his mother, two older brothers, and sister—who kept begging him to come home.
Tom and I met seven years ago. Back then, I lived with my elderly mother—I was a late-in-life child, and I couldn’t leave her alone under any circumstances. Tom accepted that and moved in with us. Mum, though, refused to register him officially. So he lived with us as an unofficial lodger.
I have a daughter from a previous marriage, Lottie, who’s now nine. Tom and I just signed the papers—no big wedding, no guests. At the time, he had health issues, wasn’t working, and there was neither the money nor the point in a celebration. I, meanwhile, was working, sometimes almost without weekends—my “two days on, two off” schedule quickly turned into “seven on, zero off.”
Tom spent his time doing odd jobs around the house. Mum and I gave him money—from her pension and my salary. He put up wallpaper, replaced tiles, doors, redid the plumbing. Professionals installed the ceiling, but the rest? All his work. He had a neutral relationship with Mum—no fights, no conflicts. He had one room, Mum shared with Lottie, and I, as usual, was at work.
On top of my salary, I get child support from my ex-husband. That money is strictly for Lottie: food, clothes, school, clubs, a little saved for her future—maybe a home or university. Her dad isn’t stingy, pays regularly. Tom barely interacted with her. I didn’t push it—Lottie has a father who’s involved in her life.
Tom and I never had kids together. I didn’t want to.
Now, to the point.
A month ago, Tom—then working for about six months—got ready to go out one evening. I asked,
“Where?”
“My sister and nephew are visiting. I’ve got to meet them.”
I figured he’d fetch them—then they’d go to a hotel or a friend’s. Certainly not ours. But no. An hour later, he walked in with a blonde woman, about forty, and a teenage boy. The woman said,
“I’m Mary, this is my son, Simon.”
Tom, like it was nothing, told them, “Make yourselves at home,” and went to grab their bags.
I was stunned. Sat the “guests” down with tea, then went to confront Tom. He calmly declared,
“Mary’s husband left her. They’ve nowhere to go. I brought them here.”
“Brilliant. And you didn’t think to ask me? This is Mum’s house. Where exactly are they sleeping?”
He’d already decided: Lottie and I would move into Mum’s room, the teenager would take Lottie’s room, and his “sister” Mary would stay with him. Just like that. We argued. I suggested the logical solution—Mary and her son share a room—but Tom wouldn’t budge.
Mum was furious. She put her foot down: two days, max. And reminded Tom,
“Have you forgotten who owns this place? You should’ve asked.”
He snapped back,
“I turned this dump into a proper home! Push me, and I’ll take you to court—demand a share in the house!”
Mum’s blood pressure spiked. I jumped in, but he just threatened, “Want me to rip off the wallpaper? Smash the tiles?”
That night, Lottie and I slept in Mum’s room while Tom shared his with his “sister.” The whole thing made me sick.
In the morning, while he was still asleep, I checked social media. I signed up and searched for his real sister—using the surname he’d mentioned once. Found her. The real Mary: brunette, 35, with a 14-year-old son, her profile full of posts like, “Love my husband,” “Blissfully married.” So who was this blonde?
Obvious—his mistress. And I finally understood. My first instinct was to make a scene, but I held back. Sent Lottie to school, told her to wait at a friend’s after class for my call. Mum and I dressed and went to see a solicitor.
The consultation reassured us: cosmetic renovations don’t entitle him to a share. So—he could be kicked out. After the solicitor, we went to the police. They shrugged: “Unless he breaks something, we can’t help.”
I sent Mum home, stopped by the court to file for divorce, then called friends. A few men agreed to help with the “eviction.” After work.
Back home, I calmed Mum. Spent the day watching “Mary” and her “son.” The boy was 17, not in school, not working. I played naive, asking about childhood, school, family. She and Tom exchanged nervous glances, stumbling over their lies. Disgusting. But I waited.
Then came the grand finale.
My friends arrived. Tom—out. “Mary”—out. The boy got a firm but polite escort to the door. Their bags followed. Finally, I cracked and gave “Mary” a shove out. Tom, now in the corridor, suddenly confessed,
“Alright, fine. It’s Lucy. My mistress. Her husband threw her out. I felt sorry for her. I messed up. Come on, we’re all men like this. You can’t eat boiled potatoes forever!”
Yes, Tom. But you forgot—you weren’t in your own home. And the “potatoes” weren’t yours to cook. You were in my mother’s house. And now you’re out.
I might not have told anyone. But let this be a warning: there’s a woman out there whose husband moved his mistress into her mother’s house and slept with her under the same roof. And that woman didn’t give up. It gets better. The key? Don’t be afraid. And remember—someone else’s shamelessness isn’t your burden. You’ll handle it. I did. And so will you.
