**Diary Entry**
My soon-to-be ex-husband is from another town. Years ago, he was sent here for compulsory military service. After finishing, he didn’t return home but stayed instead. At first, he lived with a girl he’d met during his service, but it didn’t work out—they went their separate ways. Anthony rented a flat and carried on working. His family—his mother, two older brothers, and sister—asked him to come home, but he never did.
We met seven years ago. I’m an only child, born late in my mother’s life, so I refused to leave her. Anthony agreed and moved in with us. My mother wouldn’t add him to the household register, so he lived with out-of-town registration. Besides Mum, I have a daughter, Nicola—or Nicky, as we call her—from my first marriage. She’s nine now.
A year into living together, we got married—just a registry office affair. Anthony had health issues then and wasn’t working. We couldn’t afford a big wedding, and we didn’t want one anyway.
While he was home, he renovated Mum’s flat. I gave him money for materials from my wages, Mum from her pension, and he did all the work himself—new wallpaper, replaced the interior doors, retiled the kitchen and bathroom. We even had a false ceiling fitted, though professionals handled that.
Mum got on with Anthony—no real quarrels. He stayed in one room; Mum shared with Nicky in the evenings and on weekends. I worked shifts, supposed to be two on, two off, but I took extra hours to keep us afloat.
Besides my salary, I get child support. That money’s only for Nicky—some for daily needs—clothes, nursery fees, now school uniforms, books, and extracurriculars—the rest I save for her future. Her father isn’t tight-fisted, so by the time she’s eighteen, there should be enough for a small flat.
Anthony barely interacted with Nicky. I never pushed it—she has her own dad. No shared kids between us—I didn’t want more.
Then, last month, everything unravelled. Anthony (who’d found work six months earlier) got ready to go out one evening. When I asked where, he said, *”My sister and nephew are visiting. I need to meet them.”* I assumed they’d booked a hotel. Never imagined he’d bring them *here*. But he did.
Behind him walked a blonde woman in her forties and a lad of about eighteen. *”I’m Mary,”* she said. *”This is my son, Oliver.”* Anthony, cool as anything, invited them in and went back for their bags. I sat them down for tea and pulled Anthony aside.
*”Mary’s husband left her. She’s got nowhere to go, so I invited them here,”* he announced.
*”You didn’t think to ask? This is Mum’s flat! And where will they sleep?”*
His solution? Mum’s place has three rooms—one for her, ours, and Nicky’s. I was to move in with Mum and Nicky, Oliver would take Nicky’s room, and Mary would stay with *him*.
We argued. Why couldn’t Oliver and Mary share a room? But Anthony wouldn’t budge. Mum was livid—two days max. *”Did you forget who owns this place?”*
Anthony snapped: *”I turned this dump into something decent! Push me, and I’ll sue for a share!”*
Mum’s blood pressure spiked. I fought back, but he doubled down, threatening to rip up the tiles and tear down the wallpaper if we refused.
That night, Mum, Nicky, and I shared a room. Oliver slept in Nicky’s bed; Anthony with his *”sister.”* The gall—years of not working, then acting like he owned the place.
At dawn, while he slept, I looked up Mary on social media (I’d never used it before, but knew her married name—Anthony once mentioned it matched distant relatives of mine). The *real* Mary—his sister—was a brunette, 35, mother to a 14-year-old Oliver. Her posts were all *”Love my husband,”* *”Happy family.”*
So who was this woman? The answer was obvious: his mistress.
I kept cool—sent Nicky to school with instructions to wait at a friend’s. Mum and I saw a solicitor. Good news: cosmetic renovations don’t qualify for property claims. Phew. Then to the police—they wouldn’t act preemptively. *”Come back if he trashes the place.”*
I filed for divorce, then rang a few male friends. They agreed to help evict him that evening.
Back home, Mum was frazzled. I couldn’t even look at Anthony or *”Mary.”* Turned out Oliver was 17, jobless, not in school. I spent the day needling her—asking about their childhood, relishing their panicked glances.
That evening’s *performance* was unforgettable. My friends marched Anthony out; I shoved *”Mary”* after him. Oliver left quietly. Then Anthony’s belongings followed, tossed into the hallway.
On his way out, he confessed—*”Mary”* was Lucy, his mistress. Her husband had kicked her out, and my genius husband’s bright idea was to pass her off as his sister. *”Men make mistakes,”* he pleaded. *”You can’t eat roast beef every day.”*
I’m fine—really. I wouldn’t even share this, except I want women reading this to know: somewhere out there, a man brought his mistress into his mother-in-law’s home and slept with her while his wife lay in the next room. And *that* wife didn’t crumble. Neither will you. There’s always a way through. Chin up—you’ll be alright.
