Did You Know Your Husband Has a Mistress?

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Author John SmithReading 3 minViews 7Published by February 4, 2026

Did you know your husband has a mistress?

Oh really? Did you know hes got a wife? I replied with a sly grin.

What? No, you dont understand! said the voice on the other end, sounding flustered. Its not me!

Well, its not me either.

Then who is it? she asked, bewildered.

The horse in the tweed jacket, I said, deliberately muddling it, and hung up.

I didnt actually have a husband, just a foul mood and little to do, so why not have a bit of banter?

The phone rang again a couple of hours later.

Yes, I know about the mistress, I assisted the voice, carving up a chicken drumstick.

How do you know? She still sounded thrown off.

Youre quite indecisive for a mistress, I chided, dolloping ketchup and mayonnaise together.

What are you doing? The girls confusion grew at the other end.

Having a drumstick.

Whose?

The last mistresss.

She hung up herself.

Munching contentedly, I finished off the drumstick and a wing, washed down with blackcurrant tea.

This time the mistress waited less, just enough for me to finish my tea.

You lied to me, she accused, her tone wounded.

Well, hello again, mistress.

Why arent you crying? she asked after a pause.

And why should I cry?

A normal wife would be in tears! she objected.

Im not the normal wife. When the old mans off the cart, its lighter for the woman.

Its usually the woman off the cart she mumbled.

Maybe youre the woman. Im a lady, I chuckled, throwing her off balance.

So, are you letting him go? she asked, her voice back uncertain.

Was I holding him?

I dont know

Neither do I.

Look, stop messing me about! she snapped. So, are you letting him go or not?

Take him, please. I made an expansive gesture. Plus William, Wendy, Winifred, and Walter.

Who are they? she blurted, completely lost.

Two children, a parrot, and a cat. Have a guess which ones the cat, I struggled not to burst out laughing.

Why are all the names starting with W? she nervously ventured, trying to digest it.

Would you rather they started with A? I couldnt resist a jab.

Its still odd.

Nothing odd, my husband chose them. Said that in our house, everything would start with W.

But your names Natalie! she objected.

Thats right, I grinned, though my real names Alice. But do you know what he used to call me? I tantalised her.

How? she asked, breathless with curiosity.

I mentally flipped through names beginning with W and triumphantly blurted: Wilhelmina!

And I was little crow, she admitted, suddenly bashful.

I couldnt contain it and burst out laughing, all my bad mood evaporating.

I felt grateful not to be married, not forced to take these absurd conversations seriously.

Around midnight the mistress called again.

You know, she announced rather boldly, if youre such an odd wife, you can just keep your odd husband. Youre a perfect match! she declared, then hung up.

A bit later, I saw shed blocked my number.

So, on a random Saturday evening, I mightve saved someones marriage by sheer accident. I hope the wife appreciates it.

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Did You Know Your Husband Has a Mistress?

Let Me Go, Please “I’m not going anywhere…” the woman whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “This is my home and I’m not leaving it.” “Mum,” said the man gently. “You know I can’t take care of you anymore. Please, you have to understand.” Alex was sad. He could see how worried and anxious his mother was as she sat on the battered old sofa in the cottage where she’d spent her whole life. “I’ll be fine, you don’t need to look after me,” she said stubbornly. “Just leave me here.” But Alex knew she couldn’t manage. It was a stroke. His mother, Mrs. Sylvia Peterson, had always been unwell. He remembered all too well the months he’d taken off work to care for her when she broke her leg—not long ago. She’d put on a brave face, but at first, she couldn’t even take a single step on her own. Not so long ago, Alex had finally started earning a decent living, and planned to spend the summer refurbishing the family home to make life easier for his mum. But the stroke changed everything. There was no point in renovating; he’d have to move her to his flat in the city. “Marina will help you pack,” he nodded to his wife. “Just let her know if you need anything.” Sylvia said nothing, her gaze fixed on the window, where the autumn breeze tugged yellowed leaves from the ancient trees she’d known all her life. Her good right hand clenched her useless left tightly in her lap. Marina busied herself in the bedroom, constantly asking what to bring and what not to, but Sylvia simply stared through the glass, her thoughts far from her daughter-in-law and the old house dresses. Mrs. Sylvia Peterson had been born and lived all of her sixty-eight years in a tiny English village that had emptied as time went on. She’d worked as a seamstress first at the local dressmaker’s, then from home when there weren’t enough customers. Gradually, her work dried up, and she turned her attention wholly to the garden and cottage, pouring her life into them. The idea of leaving for a strange, too-big city flat was unthinkable. … “Alex, she hasn’t eaten again,” Marina sighed as she set an untouched plate on the kitchen table. “I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.” Alex looked first at his wife and then at the full plate. He shook his head, taking a heavy breath before going into his mother’s room. Sylvia was seated on the sofa, unmoving, staring at the garden. Her faded grey eyes were fixed somewhere far away, working hand holding her useless one as though trying to bring it back to life. The room was filled with rehab equipment and medicines. Without Alex’s insistence, she would never use any of it. “Mum?” No response. “Mum?” “My darling?” came her faint, slurred reply. Even now, speaking was hard; the words blurred. It had improved, but still, it was difficult to make her out. “Why aren’t you eating? Marina cooked again just for you. You’ve hardly touched anything in days.” “I don’t want to, love,” Sylvia replied softly, turning to Alex. “Really. Please, don’t force me.” “Mum… What do you want then? Just say…” Sitting next to her, Alex took her hand. She squeezed his back. “You know what I want, Alex. I want to go home. I’m afraid I never will.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know I’m working every day now, and Marina’s always busy with the doctors. It’s winter, and the trip would be hard… Can we at least wait until spring?” His mother nodded. Alex smiled, stood, and left. “Just hope it’s not too late, my son… Just hope it’s not too late.” … “I’m sorry, the IVF didn’t work again,” the doctor said apologetically, removing her glasses and looking at the young woman. Marina gasped, face in hands. “But how? Why does it work for everyone else? You said it was normal for the first attempt to fail. Only forty percent succeed at first. But this is the third round—why is it never me?” Alex sat silently, holding his wife’s trembling hand. He was anxious, too. His mother, Mrs. Peterson, was having her massage session across the hallway; he had to collect her shortly. “I understand all of this means so much to you,” the doctor said quietly. “But I think the stress is holding you back. Your body can’t…” “Of course I’m stressed! I have to work at home just to pay for this ridiculously expensive IVF! I have to take horrible pills, look after your mother-in-law, run to appointments, and listen to her complain about food and medicine! Maybe if we had a child, my husband would finally focus on someone besides his mother!” Marina broke off abruptly, realizing what she’d said. She grabbed her bag and strode out, slamming the door. “I’m sorry,” Alex whispered. “It’s alright,” the doctor sighed. “I’ve seen worse. Take care.” Alex followed his wife out. Marina was crumpled on a waiting room bench, quietly sobbing into her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were red and swollen. “I’m sorry… I just… I didn’t mean what I said about your mum. I’m exhausted. Tired of watching someone slowly die in front of us. Tired of seeing one line on a test, and pouring our savings into failed attempts. I just… can’t do it anymore…” “If there was anything I could do, I’d help you both. But I just can’t…” “I know,” Marina managed through tears, giving a weary smile. “I understand.” They sat hand in hand in silence for a time before Marina jumped up, fixed her collar, and gave a determined smile. “Come on. Mrs Peterson’s probably done. She hates hospitals. They make her sad.” … “Your mum’s made almost no progress,” said the elderly doctor quietly when Alex drew him aside. Marina remained with Sylvia. “When you first came, I was sure she would recover. Yes, strokes are difficult, but she had none of the risk factors. She had a real chance.” “But nothing’s happening. I can see it myself.” “I think… She doesn’t want to recover. She’s given up. There’s no spark in her eyes. It’s as if she’s lost the will to live.” Alex nodded silently. He could see it too. Sylvia had lost fifteen kilos; she barely resembled herself. She sat unmoving, all day, staring out. No books, no TV, no conversations—just the window. “In some, strokes affect behavior,” the old doctor added softly, “but I didn’t expect it to hit so hard in your mother’s case. Early on, she showed nothing like this.” “I think it’s something else,” Alex replied, just as quietly. … “Alex,” Marina’s voice was low on the phone, “can you cancel your trip? Sylvia’s really bad. I’m afraid… you won’t make it in time…” It hurt to say. She knew what his mother meant to him, and it weighed on her too, witnessing Sylvia slip away lying on the sofa. Before, her mother-in-law would listen to her late husband’s old vinyl records or gaze at the garden through the window, but now, she lay silent, not moving, not eating—only drinking the milk she used to complain was nothing like the village. Alex arrived that night, rushing to his mother’s side and sitting with her all night. “You know what I want. You promised me.” Alex nodded. Yes, he’d promised. The next day they made the journey to the old village. Sylvia refused the doctor. “I don’t want to go to hospital. I want to go home.” It was March. Roads, for once, hadn’t flooded. They drove almost to the door. Alex helped his mother into the wheelchair. It was thawing now. Snow receded from the garden under the first real sun. Trees shivered in the breeze, and Sylvia sat outside for hours, finally smiling. She breathed deep, gazed at the sky, crying tears of happiness. She was home, surrounded by her beloved garden, her battered little cottage, the birdsong and the scent of earth she’d always known. That night, she ate properly, spent hours outside once more, a smile never leaving her lips. By morning, she was gone. She passed away, smiling—at peace. Alex and Marina took time off to bury Mrs. Peterson, clear the cottage, and decide what to do with the house. Alex, in truth, just wanted to breathe in the intoxicating village air; for years, he’d never spent more than a weekend here. Mere hours before their return to the city, Marina suddenly felt ill. In the bathroom, she found herself sick. When she emerged, her eyes were huge with disbelief, clutching a pregnancy test—she’d carried them everywhere, always in vain. This time, there were two blue lines. “It’s your mum… Mrs. Peterson helped us,” she whispered through happy tears. Alex looked to the sky, then, with a grateful nod, hugged his wife tightly. It was his mother’s final gift—the most precious of all.