My husband—now ex-husband—had the audacity to bring his mistress into the house. But alas, I found a way to make him regret his poor decisions.
Where should we start? The marriage? Lord, that seemed like a long time ago. Especially after everything that happened.
Sometimes we oughta wonder where everything went wrong. But I guess they just do, one way or another … Sure, my husband got what he deserved in the end, but somehow I just have this feeling that something is still missing.
Let’s start with our marriage then
We got married when we were 25. Not so old, not so young, mature enough to take care of ourselves, but still too naive to understand what relationships are all about.
But we all make mistakes, don’t we?
Shortly after, we had a son—little Jimmy. Such a sweet kid. At least there’s this one thing I’m proud of from this marriage.
We relocated to Eastern Europe and he got a job as a writer, but they were not paying him enough to support the family. I tried asking him to change his job, but he decided not to since he liked working remotely, and this job happened to offer him this possibility. However, somehow I understand his rationale since it’s either that or teaching English—and I couldn’t imagine my ex being a teacher.
And since his job wasn’t enough for us to get by, I had to get a job as well.
Now comes the problem—we needed someone to take care of little Jimmy. If both of us were working, we needed someone to look after him since he was only three at the time, and we didn’t feel safe leaving him at home all by himself. As both of our parents were back in the states, having them taking care of Jimmy was not an option.
My ex and I talked about it, and I proposed leaving my job and for him to just get a better job to support the family so I’d have time to take care of Jimmy, granted that I also hated my lousy job.
But he said no, and that was when everything kicked off.
At first, we asked a mutual friend of ours to help out—an English woman in her 50s with two kids of her own, all grown up. Things seemed to be working out pretty well too since Jimmy really liked her.
But fast forward a month, my ex said he found a full-time nanny, and that she’d be moving in with us.
I still don’t understand how that could make sense—a full-time nanny? I have never heard of anything like that, but I simply assumed that we lived in Eastern Europe and things worked differently here.
I still remember that first day when I met the “nanny,” however.
She was just 22, fresh out of college. A petite blonde girl named Anya. Lord, when I saw those eyelashes on her eyes, I couldn’t imagine how much money she spent on cosmetics every month.
Are you sure she’s a good fit? She just graduated from college,” I remember asking my ex at the time.
“Nah, she’s alright. My buddy Joe recommended her, and it’d be cheaper than paying Rosamund anyway,” he said.
Rosamund was our friend from England, by the way.
It sounded a bit fishy, but since we didn’t have much of a choice as every penny counts, I decided to let her stay at our place and take care of Jimmy.
I gotta admit, Jimmy actually got along with Anya pretty well. Anya’s English was not that great, but they still managed to communicate somehow. She even managed to teach Jimmy some Russian, which is probably a useful skill anyway.
As for my ex, he was always nice to Anya—of course, in hindsight I really should have seen that coming. But at the time, I simply assumed my ex was just trying to be a good host.
How naive I was
One day, I got back home from work (I work for a tech startup, by the way—lousy management) and Jimmy was just there by himself in the bedroom. Anya and my ex were nowhere to be found.
However, the bedroom door was locked.
I crept towards the door, trying to see if I could gather what exactly was going on. I leaned my ears against the door, but all I could hear were whisperings.
I did hear the word “condom,” however.
Call it a woman’s gut feeling—but I knew something fishy was going on.
I didn’t confront my ex right away, however. I simply devised a plan to get back at him. Here comes the exciting part.
One day as my ex was out doing groceries (he was probably at a pub) I approached Anya. And Lord, that conversation.
“How do you like it here?” I asked.
“It is nice. Thank you for having me here,” she responded.
Then I went all the way out.
“Look, girl, I have to tell you something.”
What did I tell her? Let me keep it a secret for now.
Two hours later, my ex finally came back—I was pretty certain that I could smell Guinness in his breath.
There he was, trying to put the groceries in the cupboard when Anya and I walked towards him in the kitchen. I gave Anya the signal to go on. “Paul,” she said. “How many women do you have outside your marriage?”
My ex was astounded—he had no idea what just happened.
“W—what are you talking about?” he responded, his legs shaking fervently.
It was a good idea to get him right there, right after he had a few drinks. It was then when I chimed in.
“I was trying to tell Anya about the affair you had with that girl Olga,” I said. “You think I don’t know about it?”
“What? Olga? What’re you even talking about?”
“Your wife told me everything,” Anya said. “What an idiot I am.” Then she simply stormed out of the house.
What on earth was that? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” said my ex.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind, you prick,” I responded. “You thought I didn’t know what was going on between you and Anya?”
“Jesus Christ, seriously?”
“I’m moving back to Virginia. Wait for the divorce papers.”
He turned silent for a moment.
“But who the hell is Olga? What the hell just happened there?” he said. I could see his feet trembling.
“Oh, I made her up, and she believed that,” I responded. “That’s why you don’t date twenty-year-olds.”
Here I am, back in Virginia with my family—with sole custody of little Jimmy, of course.
Here’s the thing—I am pretty sure I made the right choice by divorcing my ex. Sure, Olga was made up, but God knows how many Olgas were out there. I know one Anya, but even that’s enough already.
I do feel a bit sorry for Anya though—a young girl from Eastern Europe, trying to harbor that promise from an American man who said he would love her and take care of her (I suppose that was the case based on the conversation). But she got nothing in the end, absolutely nothing.
Is that karma? I don’t really know.
But now I have to raise Jimmy all by myself. As much as I hate my ex and what he did to us—it was his own fault, really—I still wish things worked out the way I expected them to.
But they never do, do they? Just like that tech company I worked for in Eastern Europe.