Who Slept in My Bed and Creased the Sheets… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Just Older Than Our Daughter—Chubby Cheeks, Innocent Eyes, Nose Piercing (He Forbade Our Daughter Ever Getting One)—Standing There Bare-Legged in a Cropped Jacket, and I Wanted to Snap: “If You’re Planning on Having Children With That Idiot, Buy a Coat and Wear Tights Under Your Jeans.” Of Course, I Said Nothing. I Just Handed Over the Keys, Grabbed My Bags of Leftover Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mum, Who’s Slept in My Bed and Creased My Sheets?”—When My Daughter Came Home Early, She Found the Young Nymph Drinking Cocoa From Her Favourite Mug, Wearing Her Slippers, While Her Dad Was in the Shower. It Was Just Like a Fairytale, But With Extra Betrayal. Unlike My Daughter, I Took It Calmly—Of Course, My Ego Was Bruised Seeing Such Youthful Beauty, But Mainly I Felt Relief After Years of Late-Night Calls and Coffee Shop Receipts From Places He Never Took Me. Even So, He Lied Shamelessly: “It’s Just the First Time—A Comet Fell From the Sky,” Yet That ‘Comet’ Turned Out to Be a Twenty-Year-Old Hotel Worker Who Chased Him All the Way to London. Sergei’s Flat Was His Before We Married, and Once I Filed for Divorce, My Daughter and I Had to Move Across Town to My Gran’s Old Place—She Hated The Daily School Commute, but Eventually We Settled in, New Jobs and Exams Keeping Us Busy and Distracted from Sadness. Sergei’s Mistress, Arianna, Phoned for Baking Advice and Turned Up Once With Forgotten Photos. She Marvelled at Our Faded Wallpaper—Not “Chic,” but It Was Home. Then, About a Year Later, Arianna Appeared at Our Door in Tears, Mascara Streaming: She’d Just Stumbled on Sergei With His Secretary Instead. Clutching Her Sports Bag, She Asked to Spend the Night and Borrow Train Fare Home. My Daughter Was Furious—It Was Her or Arianna. I Kept the Peace, Brewed Tea for the Distraught Mistress, and Eventually Put Her on a Train, Having Lent Her Money and Listened to Her Promise Never to Fall for Married Men Again. Sergei Called Later, Swearing He’d Changed and Wanted Us Back—“Running Out of Clean Laundry?” I Asked. I Didn’t Take Him Back, but I Didn’t Gloat Either—Instead, I Discovered a New Joyfulness, Adopted a Dog, Took Evening Walks, and Began to Smile More. I Even Befriended the Handsome Neighbour, Ten Years Older. Life, At Last, Moved On.

Author Walton MerrittReading 7 minViews 2

Whos been sleeping in my bed and left it rumpled A diary entry.

My husbands mistress was only a few years older than our daughter baby-faced, wide-eyed, with a nose piercing (the same thing my daughter once begged for, and he furiously forbid). I couldnt quite summon anger at a girl like her I watched her shivering, bare bluish legs poking out beneath a cropped jacket and wanted so desperately to snap, If youre planning on having this idiots children, at least buy yourself a proper winter coat and put on tights under those jeans. But, of course, I said nothing. I simply handed over the keys to Chloe, scooped up two bags of our remaining things, and walked out to the bus stop.

Mrs. Clarke, whats that thing under the kitchen counter? Chloe called after me. Is it for storing plates?

I couldnt resist lobbing one last parting shot:

I usually kept the bodies of Chriss mistresses there, but you can use it for washing up.

I didn’t wait for her reply, nor did I turn around to see Chloes startled face. Feeling a strange satisfaction, I marched down the steps. Twenty years of marriage down the drain, I thought. Just like that.

It was my daughter, Lucy, who first discovered Chriss affair. She decided to skip sixth form for an afternoon, thinking the house would be empty, and instead found a young nymph sipping hot chocolate from her favourite mug. Considering the only thing the nymph wore was a bit of lace, and Chris was splashing in the shower, my clever Lucy put two and two together and called me right away:

Mum, I think Dads got a girlfriend, and shes pinched my slippers and is drinking from my cup!

Just like in a fairy tale, I thought bitterly, remembering how Lucy was more devastated by someone touching her treasured things than by the betrayal itself. Whos been lying in my bed and creasing my sheets

Unlike Lucy, I took it all rather calmly. Yes, my pride was wounded the girl was all youth and charm, while Id grown soft, with cellulite and more flaws than I cared to admit at forty. But in truth, I felt almost relieved; the endless mysterious phone calls at night, erratic hours, and receipts for coffee shops Chris would never take me to But I could never catch him Chris was too slick, making me feel guilty whenever I dared complain.

Shes the first, Chris lied, brazen as ever. It must be an eclipse or something like a comet straight to my head.

Turns out, the comet was a receptionist at the hotel Chris had stayed in for work. She was twenty, pretty but plain, not much going for her aside from a sweet smile. I suspect not much up top either, because she followed him across England to London, rented a dingy room on her savings, and thats why they met at the flat she could shower, wash her clothes. I wondered why my washing machine was always on a fast cycle, never mixed fabrics anymore!

Chriss flat had come from his dad, years before we married. Once I decided to file for divorce, I packed up with Lucy for my own flat on the edge of London, the one left by my nan. Lucy protested how could she get to school from there!

Live with us, then, Chris suggested, receiving an earful for his troubles. Well, at least Lucy could say precisely what she thought of her father now.

The adjustment was rough at first new bus routes, new shops, work and school took an hour to reach. But we settled in. I found a new job eventually, Lucy got into college, which was thankfully half the journey time from our new place. There wasnt time to wallow lifes problems and exams kept us on our toes, and by the time the worst was behind us, neither of us felt much like mourning.

Chloe rang me a few times asking how long to bake pies, where the dishwasher tablets went. She even dropped round once, bringing some old photos I needed for Lucys graduation. Chris couldnt (or wouldnt) come, I was in bed ill, and Lucy flatly refused to step foot in the old place, saying it would ruin her mental health right before computing exams.

Charming here, isnt it, Chloe said, not quite convincing as she surveyed our faded wallpaper and retro lamps.

I just smiled. Well, yes, its charming what else can I say? Over there is modern and convenient, twenty years labour. So be it, let them enjoy it.

But that encounter came back to bite me about a year after the infamous day, somebody rattled the front door late one evening.

Is that for you? I asked Lucy.

She gave me a wide-eyed stare.

Chloe was sobbing on the doorstep, makeup streaked down her cheeks, clutching a bursting sports bag.

Has something happened with Chris? I asked, alarmed.

He cheated! With his secretary! she sniffled. I tried to surprise him since he said he was working late

She dissolved into tears, hiding her face in shaking hands.

And what do you expect from me? I asked, already suspecting what the overstuffed bag implied.

Could I stay the night, please? Ive got no money. Ill go to my mums in Devon tomorrow.

And how, if youve got no money?

I hoped youd lend me some.

I was torn between laughing and crying.

Lucy made my mind up for me.

Get out! she spat, tossing in some words shed never used around me before.

I shot her a reproachful look.

Come in, Chloe, I said. Its late, cant send you out into the night.

Worse was yet to come.

Lucy was so outraged she declared her or me. I shrugged youre an adult, your choice. Go live with your dad if you want.

Like Id want that! Im off to Beths!

I ended up hailing her a cab and sending her off to her mates. I spent the rest of the evening nursing Chloe with tea and valerian, she whod lived in London a year but didnt have friends or work, just another new tongue piercing. Of course, I lent her the cash what else could I do, couldnt keep her here. I even drove her to the station so she wouldnt get lost.

Chloe thanked me profusely, begged forgiveness, and swore shed get her act together study, stop getting tangled with married men.

Mum always said I was hopeless. Looks like she was right.

I let her board her train and didnt wave that seemed over the top. Lucy and I made up quickly, but she still couldnt grasp how I could help that homewrecker. I stroked her fluffy hair, smiled gently, and said:

Youll understand when youre older.

Chris called a week later. Said hed realised everything, broken it off with Chloe, and was ready for a happy reunion.

Run out of clean shirts? I asked, sarcasm thick.

Pretty much, sighed my ex-husband. She cant do laundry, its been a year and Ive worn nothing but stained t-shirts.

Of course, I didnt go back. I didnt gloat, either. But I cant deny everything had shifted. A lightness filled my mind and heart; I smiled more. I bought a spaniel, wandered parks on twilight walks. I even met my new neighbour, a charming gentleman ten years older than me so what, Im hardly a schoolgirl anymore. Life rolled on in its own new rhythm.

The Waiter Offered to Take Away the Kitten, But the Six-Foot-Two Gentle Giant Scooped Up the Fluffy, Crying Baby and Sat Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Only Your Finest Steak!” — Let’s wear something daring, nearly as bold as the young nymphs, and head to the poshest restaurant in town. Time to flaunt ourselves and size up the gents… So declared one of the three friends—a headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school, always armed with clever words as her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, they believed, for miniskirts and blouses that highlighted their charms more than they concealed them. Deep necklines, flawless makeup—ready for battle. The venue was chosen accordingly: only London’s most exclusive, status-defining, and extremely expensive restaurant would do. Booking was easy, and soon they were catching admiring glances from the men and sneers from the men’s companions. Conversation, as always, revolved around the chief subject—men. Dreams, hopes, requirements. Each was waiting for her ideal—tall, fit, handsome, and, of course, rich. A man to sweep her off her feet, fulfill every whim, never chatter needlessly, nor burden her with chores. Nobility a bonus. — But absolutely not like those lot… The friends exchanged glances, nodding towards a trio of cheerful, slightly portly men with receding hairlines at a nearby table. Beer, crisps, and mountains of steak, football and fishing stories. Their laughter was loud, genuine, completely uninhibited. — Disgraceful. — So tasteless. — Ugh. Their verdict unanimous: scruffy, coarse, without a whiff of nobility—utterly wrong for such sophisticated ladies. And then, in a blink, everything changed. In came The Man—arriving in a scarlet Ferrari, the latest model. — Lord Coburg Saxon! — announced the waiter with great pomp at the entrance. The friends straightened like hounds catching a scent. Tall, sculpted, salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly tailored suit that cost a fortune, diamond cufflinks, dazzlingly white shirt—the full package. — Oh my… — This is it… — Mmm… Necklines dipped even lower, eyes turned openly seductive. — Now that’s a real man, — one whispered. — A Lord, a stunner, and a millionaire, — crooned the second. — I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a child. The third said nothing, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lordly table. They walked tall, faces set in subtle disdain for the rest—including the three beer lovers. Lord Coburg was charming, sparkling in conversation, regaling tales of ancient lineage, ancestral estates, and rare art collections. Tension brewed—the invitation for the rest of the evening would go to just one. For now, gourmet distractions: lobsters, trays of seafood, aged wine. The ladies feasted, casting smouldering glances at the lord, their daydreams already far from the dinner table. Cheeks flushed—their beauty at its peak. Lord Coburg dazzled—joking, sharing high society stories. It mattered little where he might invite them next. At the restaurant, a small garden gave off tempting aromas even outside. Soon, a tiny, grey kitten emerged—skinny, hungry—and scooted under tables to sit at Lord Coburg’s feet, pleading for mercy. In vain. Lord Coburg’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he kicked the kitten away. The tiny creature flew across the floor and smacked into the table leg of our trio. A hush fell over the restaurant. — I despise filthy, mongrel creatures, — he declared loudly. — In my estate, we have pedigreed hounds and champion horses. The waiter rushed to soothe the situation: — Right away, sir, apologies… He aimed for the “beer” table, but one of the men was already on his feet. Huge, nearly six-foot-two, face flushed, fists clenched. Friends tried to hold him back. He silently picked up the kitten and sat him on a chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. — Only the very best steak. Now. The waiter turned pale and dashed to the kitchen. Applause erupted across the restaurant. One of the “nymphs” silently rose, approached the gentle giant and declared: — Move over. And order a lady a whisky. Lord Coburg was struck dumb. A minute later, the other two friends joined, sparing Lord Coburg a scornful look. When the evening ended, not everyone left together. One new group—man, woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the gentle giant—owner of a leading investment firm. The other two wed his mates, both famous lawyers. All three weddings happened on the same day. Now, the ex-“nymphs” lead a very different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning. Almost simultaneously, each welcomed a daughter. And, to sneak out for beloved dinners, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the babysitter and reunite to talk about life—the female kind and, of course, men. And Lord Coburg Saxon? A year later, he was arrested. Big scandal—serial conman preying on gullible women. As for real men? They’re the ones with bellies and thinning hair, no glitz or glory, but hearts of true nobility. That’s just the way it is. There’s no other way.

Dad’s Better Than Anyone – A British Family Drama of Divorce, Rivalry and a Teenager’s Hard Lesson in Love “Max, we need to talk.” Olga nervously straightened the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases, trying to hide her anxiety behind a calm voice. Max, hunched over his phone opposite, tapped the screen with dramatic focus – his favourite method of ignoring. “Son… I need to explain something important to you.” No reaction, just the soft clicks of a mobile. Olga took a deep breath, gathering courage for words she’d delayed for a week. “When your dad and I split up… it was half a year before I introduced you to Richard. I didn’t rush. I wanted to be sure it was serious.” Max’s fingers froze above the screen. The teenager lifted his head, eyes flickering with outrage, so intense that Olga instinctively recoiled. “Serious? That bloke means nothing compared to Dad! He couldn’t even hold a candle. Dad’s better than him at everything!” Memories of that first meeting struck Max with painful clarity—a tall stranger in their hall, mum’s anxious smile, the whiff of strange cologne. An intruder, unforgivably filling Dad’s place. “He isn’t a stranger,” Olga replied softly. “He’s my husband.” “Yours!” Max flung his phone onto the table. “Means nothing to me! My dad is Dad. This guy…” He didn’t finish, but contempt did his talking. Richard had tried, lord, how he tried. Evenings spent in the garage fixing Max’s bent bike, hands stained with engine grease, a determined smile against every setback. “Look, got the frame straightened,” he’d say, wiping his hands. “You can take it out tomorrow?” Silence met every gesture – icy, reverberating silence. Every evening Richard sat by Max’s desk, breaking down equations in plain words. “If you move X here—” “I get it,” Max would cut him off, even when it was clear he didn’t. Mornings brought the smell of freshly made pancakes and honey—Max’s favourite. Richard stacked them high on his plate. “Dad made them thinner,” Max would mutter, barely touching his food. “And Dad’s honey was proper. This is rubbish.” Every act of care crashed against a wall of cold indifference. Max seemed to collect ammunition for sarcastic comparisons. “Dad never shouted.” “Dad always knew what I liked.” “Dad did everything right.” Olga and Richard’s wedding shredded the fragile truce. Max took the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and irrevocable. The house became a minefield, mornings chilled by silence, nights ending in slammed doors. Max transformed into a secret agent, tracking every misstep by his stepdad like a detective. A sharp word over dinner – recorded. A sigh over homework – memorised. A tired “not now” after work – banked as grievance. “Dad, he had a go at me again,” Max would whisper in his bedroom. “Really?” Dad tutted, faking sympathy. “Poor lad. Remember those trips to the park? Every weekend, yeah?” “Yeah…” “That’s what a proper family was. Not this.” His dad painted a picture: perfect past, easy happiness, Dad flawless. Richard, meanwhile, felt like an unwelcome guest. Every look from Max screamed: you don’t belong. You’ll never be my family. The pressure built to breaking point. One evening, disaster struck. “You’ve no right to boss me about!” Max exploded when Richard asked for phones off at dinner. “You mean nothing to me!” Olga froze. Something inside her snapped. Max’s glare was venomous. “My dad is better in every way. He says you ruin everything. Life was better before you!” “Enough,” Olga said quietly. “That’s enough.” The next morning, she dialled her ex-husband’s number. Hands shaking, but her resolve steel. “Tom,” she began evenly, “if you think you’re the better parent, take Max. Permanently. I’ll pay maintenance if need be.” The silence dragged. “Well… the timing’s awkward…” Tom fumbled. “Work’s busy, loads of travel… I’d love to, but…” He shuffled papers, coughed awkwardly. “And, well, Jane—my girlfriend—she’s not ready for a kid yet. We’ve just moved in, trying to settle…” Weak excuses. Tom, who’d encouraged Max to attack Olga’s new family. Who fed him bitter words, stoked every little grievance. Now—just a cramped flat, some DIY and a girlfriend who’d rather not. “I understand, Tom,” Olga said, voice flat. “Thanks for your honesty.” She ended the call. That evening, she called Max to the living room. He slumped into a chair, defiant, but something in Mum’s gaze made him wary. “I spoke to your dad today.” Max tensed. “And what did he say?” Olga sat across from him. “He won’t take you. Not now, not ever. He’s got a new life, a new woman, and there’s no room for you.” “That’s a lie! He loves me! He told me—” “It’s easy to say things,” Olga replied softly. “But when I offered, he remembered his ‘repair work’ and his little flat.” Max’s mouth opened but he couldn’t contradict. “Now listen,” Olga leaned in. “No more comparisons with Dad. No more spying, no disrespect to Richard. Either we’re a family—us three—or you go live with your dad, who doesn’t want the job. I’ll make him take you. Then you’ll see for yourself what he’s really like.” Max sat motionless, eyes wide. “Mum…” “I’m not joking.” Olga didn’t flinch. “I love you more than anything. But I won’t let you destroy my marriage. Your behaviour is unacceptable. I’ve had enough. It’s your choice.” Max froze, his world in pieces. Kindly Dad vs ‘bad’ stepdad wasn’t so simple anymore. Dad wouldn’t take him back. He’d chosen his girlfriend and decorating. Had he used Max only to spite Mum? Painful understanding dawned. All those calls, all the questions—just ammunition. Tom gathering fuel for his own vendetta, Max unwittingly supplying it. He swallowed hard. And Richard? The man he’d mistreated for months? Patiently fixing his bike as Max ignored him. Baking pancakes every morning. Staying, trying, never quitting… Change wasn’t easy. Weeks passed with Max hiding in his room, ashamed to admit he’d acted like a child. Seeing Richard reminded him of: “You mean nothing to me.” He wanted to disappear. Everyone tread softly, speaking in cautious phrases. The house felt like an intensive care ward, teetering between hope and collapse. First step: a physics problem. Max struggled for two hours, chewed his pencil, finally found the nerve. “Richard…” The word was hard, stuck in his throat. “Can you help? It’s the vectors.” Richard glanced up from his laptop. No surprise or victory, just quiet acceptance. “Let’s have a look.” A month later, they went fishing together. Sitting by the lake, watching the bobbers, Max chatted about school, mates, a girl he fancied. No accusations, no comparisons – just a real conversation. Richard listened, nodded, occasionally added his thoughts. Max realised: this was real family. Not dreamy words or rose-tinted memories, but quiet breakfasts, patience, and sticking around when everyone else gave up. This time, Max chose right…

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