My Husband Let His Mother Bring Another Woman into Our Bedroom – So I Made Them Regret It

Weird, but fine.

Two days later, I was digging between the couch cushions for the TV remote. My fingers brushed something silky.

I pulled out a pair of sheer black tights.

Wrong size. Wrong brand. Wrong everything.

“Ew, gross!” I said out loud, jerking my hand back.

I walked into the kitchen where she was “reorganizing” my spices.

“Hey, I found these on the couch,” I said, holding them up with my two fingers.

Linda looked over, smirked, and raised an eyebrow.

Tom came in for coffee, glanced up.

“Why are you obsessing over random laundry?”

“Because it’s not mine,” I said slowly. “So whose is it?”

He kissed the top of my head like I was a child having a tantrum.

Linda chuckled.

“Jealousy is so unattractive on a woman.”

I stood there with someone else’s tights in my hand and felt that cold, sinking feeling in my stomach, the one that whispered, ‘Pay attention.’

After work that night, when I finally crawled into bed, I noticed something else: the faintest whiff of perfume on Tom’s pillow. Not mine. Not Linda’s powdery grandma scent.

If I were the only woman who lived there… then who else had been close enough to his pillow to leave their scent behind?

And I had no clue yet that the next thing I’d find wouldn’t fit in my hand.

And my mind.

I knew something was off, but nothing prepared me for what I walked into that Friday.

Work had been brutal. Traffic was worse. All I wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and forget the world existed.

Instead, I opened the bedroom door… and froze.

A tight, short, fire-engine red dress was laid out across my side of the bed.

And the blankets were rumpled, like someone had been sitting there. Or doing something else.

I stepped closer. The fabric was smooth, expensive, and the tag said a brand I would never splurge on.

It felt like walking into a crime scene I didn’t know how to interpret.

I stormed into Tom’s office.

He was mid-call. I didn’t care.

“What the is this?” I demanded, waving the dress.

He looked annoyed, not guilty.

“Seriously? It’s Emily’s. Relax.”

“Mom’s friend’s daughter.

She’s an interior designer. Mom’s had her come over a few times to give us ideas. You’re always saying you don’t have time to finish decorating.”

“That explains why her dress is on my bed?”

“She changed here.Continue reading…