At 39, I was barely holding it together. My teenage son, Ethan, wanted a lip ring, while my twin girls screamed, “No baths, more candy!” My tea was cold, and a work project, key to a promotion, sat untouched. A leaking faucet and endless chores buried me. My husband, Mike, was “busy” with a volunteer gig, his latest career shift. “It’ll get better, Kate,” he’d say, but our bickering over laundry and budgets killed our warmth. When the back gate broke, I propped it up, feeling like I’d failed as a mom and wife.
One evening, Mike said, “What if Mom stays over?” I winced, “Gloria, who said my pie was ‘edible’?” Desperate, I agreed, “Short-term.” Gloria arrived, scanning my frayed sweater, “You look drained, Kate. Try moisturizer.” She fussed over Mike and the kids, cooking a flawless meal. I almost trusted her—until I heard laughter. In the living room, Mike sat, a towel around him, as a blonde styled his hair. Two women entered: a brunette with a vacuum and a redhead with flashcards. “Who are they?” I asked, stunned.
“Gloria’s old students,” Mike said. “Their apartment’s under repair, so they’re here.” Gloria, holding coffee, purred, “I forgot to mention. They’re pitching in, temporarily.” I snapped, “Without asking?” She shrugged, “You’re overwhelmed.” The brunette, Ella, said, “Floors are clean!” The redhead, Mia, added, “I’m helping Ethan’s math.” The blonde, Chloe, finished Mike’s hair. Later, Gloria whispered, “Mike needs a lively wife, not a tired one.” I grinned, scheming. Next day, I took off work, and three friends arrived: Sam, a landscaper; Nate, a mechanic; and Ben, a roofer.
“Helpers!” I beamed as Gloria froze. Sam trimmed hedges, Nate fixed the car, and Ben patched the roof, all joking with me. Mike stammered, “Who’re these guys?” I said, “Support, since you’re swamped.” The women glared, and Gloria fumed, “This is outrageous!” I countered, “Like your live-in dating service?” At dinner, Ben teased, “Kate, you’re still a star.” Mike stood, “This stops now!” I flashed a photo of Gloria’s tablet, open to a “New Partners for Mike” list, naming Ella, Mia, and Chloe. Mike gasped, “Mom, seriously?” Gloria muttered, “Just options.” They all left—Gloria silently, the women sulkily.
Mike sank beside me, “I’m sorry for letting Mom take over. You’re incredible.” I smiled, “I got the promotion.” He hugged me, and the calm felt like triumph. I’d beaten the odds and won my home. Share this story—it might urge someone to turn betrayal into power.
