My Husband’s Mistress Showed Up At My Door And Handed Me Her Coat, Thinking I Was “The Help.” She Didn’t Realize I Own The House, The Company Her Father Works For, And The Bank Account Funding Her Vacation. Am I Wrong For Destroying Their Lives?
The Mistake
My husband’s mistress called me “the help” when she showed up at our house. She didn’t know I own the company her father works for.
My husband’s mistress rang our doorbell Saturday afternoon, and when I answered, she handed me her coat and said, “Tell Richard I’m here.”
Because she thought I was the help and not his wife of 12 years. I stood there holding her designer coat while she walked into my house like she owned it. Blonde, maybe 25, wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s rent, she looked around our foyer and said, “This place needs updating. I’ll talk to Richard about it.”
Richard is my husband—was my husband. The man I built this house with, brick by brick, working two jobs while he finished medical school. The man who apparently had a mistress young enough to be his daughter who thought she could redecorate my home.
“Where’s Richard?” She asked, not even looking at me.
“He’s not here,” I said.
“Well when will he be back? I don’t have all day.”
“Who are you?” I asked, even though I was starting to piece it together.
“I’m Alexis. Richard’s girlfriend. And you are the help, apparently?”
She laughed. “Well yes, obviously though. But Richard usually has better dressed staff. Are you new staff?”
In my own home, wearing my regular Saturday clothes—jeans and a college sweatshirt—I apparently looked like the help to this child.
“I’ve been here 12 years,” I said.
12 years. Richard’s only lived here for 5. Try 12.
She rolled her eyes. “The help always exaggerates their tenure. Just tell Richard I’m here. I’ll be in the living room.”
The Interrogation
She walked into my living room, sat on my couch, and put her feet up on my coffee table. The coffee table Richard and I bought at an estate sale our first year of marriage; we finished it together in the garage.
“Could you bring me some water?” She called out. “With lemon. Not too much ice.”
I brought her water. No lemon, too much ice. She sighed like I’d personally offended her.
“Is Richard training you? This is not how he likes things done.”
“How does Richard like things done?”
“Properly. Efficiently. With respect for his guests.”
“Are you a frequent guest?”
“I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday when his wife is at work. Sometimes Saturdays if she’s at her book club.”
I don’t have a book club. Haven’t worked Tuesdays or Thursdays in two months since I changed my schedule. Richard didn’t know about the change.
“You seem to know a lot about his wife,” I said.
She laughed. “I know enough. Older. Let herself go. Boring. Richard’s only with her for the convenience. Cheaper to keep her than divorce her, he says. He says that all the time. She trapped him young before he knew better. Now he’s stuck with some frumpy woman who probably doesn’t even know what Botox is.”
I touched my face unconsciously. 37 years old. Some lines, sure, but frumpy?
“Richard deserves better,” She continued. “Someone young, beautiful, who understands his needs. Not some housewife who probably thinks missionary is adventurous.”
“Maybe she works?” I suggested.
“Oh please. Richard says she has some little job at a company. Probably a receptionist or something. Nothing important.”
My “little job” running the company I founded 8 years ago. The one with 200 employees. The one that pays for this house, Richard’s car, and his practice that’s been hemorrhaging money for 3 years.
“Richard’s practice must do well,” I said.
She snorted. “Between us, it’s struggling. But that’s what happens when you’re too nice. He needs a woman who can push him to be ruthless. That wife of his probably encourages his soft side.”
“Maybe she pays the bills while he figures things out? With her little salary?”
“Please. Richard’s the man. He provides.”
