My Husband Has a Mistress: I Supported Their Relationship, Helped Plan Their ‘Wedding,’ and Became Her Friend—Now We Share Everything, and Our Bond Means More Than Any Romance

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Author John SmithReading 2 minViews 2Published by January 11, 2026

My husband has a mistress. Ive never had any objections to their relationship. In fact, I even arranged to meet this woman. I didnt feel any resentment towards her and thought it would be pointless to be angry with her because of my husband.

We ended up having a good chat. She turned out to be a genuinely pleasant woman. After our conversation, it almost felt as if we had known each other for years.

Later on, my husband and his mistress decided they wanted a weddingnot a real one, of course, just a little ceremony for themselves. I didnt mind at all and helped out with all the arrangements. I helped her choose a lovely bridal dress, and she gave me advice on what sort of evening dress might suit me. We agreed the ceremony should be held at our house. I acted as the witness. Everything felt very realexcept for the fact that the registrar was missing.

On the day of the wedding, we got up early, made the last bits of preparation, and started getting ourselves ready. I helped her into her dress. Then they exchanged vows and rings. The newlyweds shared a passionate kiss.

Their wedding night took place right in our home. Once my husband had fallen asleep, she came into the kitchen where we sat together talking late into the night. It was a warm and friendly conversation. As it turned out, we had quite a lot in common.

This whole situation never made me feel humiliated in the slightest. In fact, Id go so far as to say I feel happy. After all, she and I spend a lot of time together, and we always have plenty to talk about. Now Ive got someone to go shopping with, visit the park, or go for a swim. Honestly, I think our relationship will end up being far more important than any with a man.

What do you think about this sort of friendship?

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My Husband Has a Mistress: I Supported Their Relationship, Helped Plan Their ‘Wedding,’ and Became Her Friend—Now We Share Everything, and Our Bond Means More Than Any Romance

I cared for my grandchildren for eight years without pay… but yesterday they told me they’d rather have the “other grandma” because she never scolds them and buys them iPads. I’m the Grandma of hot soup. The one who picks them up from school, wipes their noses, and tucks them in at night. The other grandma is the “glamorous lady” who shows up twice a year with shiny gifts. Yesterday my grandchildren broke my heart when they said they wished I were like her. What do you do when your daily sacrifice becomes invisible compared to a credit card? My back aches—but not because I’m old (I’m only 62). It hurts from backpacks that aren’t mine, From toys I never threw away, From carrying kids who’ve grown too heavy. I am what they call the “standby grandma.” My life revolves around my daughter and her two children—eight and six years old. My daughter works. My son-in-law works too. Since they “can’t afford” a nanny and don’t trust nurseries, they just assumed I’d be happy to spend my retirement raising the next generation. And I did it—with love. I’m up at 6:30 every morning. I make breakfast, dress the children, take them to school. I clean—“You’re here, Mum, can you help?” I cook. I help with homework. I’m the one who says: “No sweets before dinner.” “Brush your teeth.” “Come on, time to study.” I’m the grandma of order and care. The “boring grandma.” Then there’s my son-in-law’s mother. She lives in another city. She has money. Lots. Weekly trips to the salon, perfect manicure. Never changed a nappy, Never cleaned sick off a rug. She’s the grandma of the “grand entrance.” She comes for Christmas and birthdays only. She arrives like Father Christmas—with branded shopping bags, forbidden goodies, and gadgets. Yesterday was my grandson’s birthday. I got up at 5am to make his favourite cake. Homemade, not shop-bought. I whipped the cream until my wrist ached. My gift—a book of adventures and a knitted jumper. That’s all my pension affords. At 4pm she arrived. Wearing perfume worth hundreds. “My darlings!” she cried. The children skipped right past me. “Nanna!” they squealed. She produced two shiny white boxes. Latest model tablets. “No limits today,” she said, “so you won’t be bored.” The children went silent. Their eyes glued to screens. My daughter and son-in-law looked—not at me, but at her. “So generous! You’re the best grandma!” I sliced the cake in the kitchen. Nobody was watching. I went to my grandson. “Sweetheart, look—your presents and cake…” “Not now, Grandma,” he said, not glancing up. “I’m setting up my character.” “But I made this for you…” “It’s always cake, Grandma. She brought tablets. Those are real presents. You just bring clothes and boring books.” I looked to my daughter. Waited for her to say something. To fix it. To say, “Respect your grandma.” She laughed. “Oh Mum, don’t take it personally. They’re kids. Tech always wins. And… well, you’re the routine grandma. She’s the fun one.” Routine. Food. Safety. Care. My little granddaughter finished it: “I want the other grandma to live here. She doesn’t tell us off and she’s never tired. You’re always tired.” I put down the cake knife. My hands were shaking. Hands worn down by bleach and soap. I took off my apron, folded it carefully. “I’m leaving,” I said quietly. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? The cake isn’t cut. There’s cleaning to do.” “Well, the fun grandma’s here.” “Mum, I have work tomorrow! Who’ll pick them up?” “I don’t know. Maybe her. Or sell a tablet—hire a nanny.” “We need you!” “You need me, but you don’t value me.” I walked out. Today my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. There are tears. They say I’m being dramatic. But I’m not coming back. Tomorrow I’ll sleep in till nine, Make myself a coffee, Eat leftover cake. For the first time—without guilt. I learned something late, but just in time: If you care for grandchildren so the parents get peace and the other grandma gets the applause, you’re not a grandma. You’re free labor. And I just handed in my notice. Question for you: Should British grandparents have to help raise their grandchildren—or are parents just saving on childcare at their expense?