John and Sarah don’t have much time for housework because they are so focused on their careers. John decides to hire a cleaner in order to ease their lives. However, the pair quickly discovers that drama has entered their house.
John, my spouse, and I have always placed a high value on our careers. However, our careers have taken off so much that we hardly have time to maintain our house.
As an architect, I have to travel frequently between locations, but John works remotely as long as he has access to a computer.
I have a close friendship with John. The motto “work hard, play harder” has always been appealing to us. We put in a lot of work, and when we can, we take the nicest vacations.
–Promotion–
But lately, I’ve started to doubt John despite my better judgment.
He made a big decision around six months ago when he hired Vanessa, a cleaner who was referred to him by a nearby organization.
One morning as he was drinking his coffee, he commented, “It’s just to help us around the house, Sarah.”
I wasn’t sure whether I wanted a stranger to search our house when we weren’t there, but I answered, “I think we can manage.”
John remarked, “We’ve been so behind on laundry.” “Our hours are insane.” We can carry on as usual at least with the cleaner, and having a clean house will be a plus.
In the end, I caved. I was sick of doing laundry at night and then forgetting about it, I had to admit.
Then, though, things changed.
John was a home worker, as far as I knew.
I’m just in my comfort zone, so it’s easier. Additionally, I can think more clearly when my coworkers aren’t talking,” he remarked.
Vanessa came to live with us as a cleaner, and I saw that John spent more time working from home. I dismissed it at first, figuring it was just a coincidence, but I also knew Vanessa was a really beautiful woman.
I would obsess on John’s actions at home, convinced that he was having an affair with Vanessa, rather than focusing at work.
I completed the task at hand.
One day, I left work early, knowing that John had chosen to work from home and that Vanessa would be spending the day at our house.
Silently driving back to our home, I wondered what I would do if I discovered them in compromised positions.
I told myself, You’re going to leave him. After you depart, you’ll begin a new life.
When I entered the house, I expected to see John at his desk, but his home office was unoccupied.
I assumed Vanessa would be in the kitchen when I stepped in, but it was also empty.
There was laughter coming from my room as I ascended the stairs, and there were garments all over my bedroom door threshold.
Heart thumping from the impending sight, I stormed into our bedroom. Even though it was a gut punch, it was a man I had never seen before, not John, who was sleeping on the bed with Vanessa.
I was so angry because I couldn’t believe my own family had betrayed me.
“What’s happening here?” With a voice quivering from anger and amazement, I demanded. The fact that the man wasn’t John relieved me. But why did Vanessa think it was acceptable to let someone else sleep in our bed?
Vanessa was stunned, her eyes bulging with shame, as the unidentified man struggled to put on his clothes.
“We… “Ma’am, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she stumbled and shook her head, trying to defend her conduct.
I ordered them to leave my house or face the repercussions of their behavior, but her words were ignored.
I resisted, threatening to call the cops. After telling her partner to leave the house, Vanessa stayed back.
“Allow me to clarify,” she said.
I couldn’t think of the right words to describe why I didn’t want to look at her for another second as I gazed at her.
“All I wanted was a job,” she declared. And I was really appreciative that the agency paired me up with John and you. However, as I got to know this guy, I started to feel something for him.
“For what duration has this been ongoing?” Not wanting to hear more, I asked.
“Just a few weeks, tops,” she remarked. However, I’ve been dating Julian for some time. I asked him over as soon as I realized I would be alone at home today.
Calmly, I told her to get outside. “Just get out of my house.”
John was at the grocery store when I called him.
He said, “I just came to get some stuff for dinner.”
When I informed him what had happened, he promised to come home right away.
I made John replace our dirty bedding as soon as he got home from Vanessa and Julian’s afternoon activities.
It seems that John had naively trusted Vanessa without realizing her true intentions.
John remarked, “She became a companion.” Nothing more than someone to flirt with. Furthermore, I was unaware that she was entertaining guests.
“Why do you work from home on the days that she shows up for work? To make out? I insisted.
Sarah, not at all. Not initially. I wanted to be here while she worked since I knew you were hesitant to have a stranger in our house. However, it evolved into something a bit more,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.
“So what?” he enquired.
I said, “We report her.”
I went down to the agency the next day and reported Vanessa. Thankfully, they acknowledged the betrayal of confidence and professionalism and handled our issue with diligence.
Vanessa’s employment with the agency ended, and she was cut off from our house.
Following the entire incident, John and I reduced our work hours. We came to the conclusion that spending time together and mending our relationship’s fissures was the only way to get it back together.
I made a promise to myself that I would leave if I even suspected adultery, but eventually I came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to face life without John.
We’re determined to come out stronger, so we’re starting therapy soon.
Do you have any comparable tales?
Father Got Mad When Mom Painted Instead of Doing Chores – What I Saw in Her House after the Divorce Made Me Gasp
My Dad always hated my Mom’s painting obsession, believing she was only fit to cook and clean. After their divorce, I stepped into her new home and discovered something that took my breath away.
I never thought I’d be grateful for my parents’ divorce, but life has a way of surprising you. I’m Iva, 25 years old. What I found in my Mom’s new home after the split completely changed my perspective on what true love really looks like and it made me cry…
Grayscale photo of a young woman covering her face | Source: Pexels
Growing up, our house was filled with the smell of oil paints and the sweet scent of turpentine. My Mom, Florence, would always create something beautiful.
But for my Dad, Benjamin, it was just noise and mess.
“Florence! When are you gonna be done with that damn painting?” Dad’s voice would boom from the kitchen. “This place is a pigsty, and dinner’s not even started!”
Side view of a woman painting a picture | Source: Pexels
Mom’s shoulders would tense, but her brush wouldn’t stop moving. “Just a few more minutes, Ben. I’m almost finished with this section.”
Dad would stomp into her workspace, his face red. “You and your silly hobby! When are you gonna grow up and act like a REAL WIFE?”
I’d watch from the doorway, my heart pounding. Mom’s eyes would meet mine, filled with a sadness I couldn’t comprehend as a ten-year-old.
An angry man pointing his finger | Source: Pexels
“Iva, honey, why don’t you go set the table?” she’d say softly.
I’d nod and scurry away, the sound of their argument following me down the hall.
Years passed, and the arguments only got worse. When I was fourteen, they finally called it quits. Dad got custody, and I only saw Mom on weekends.
Close-up of divorce papers on a table | Source: Pexels
The first time I visited her new apartment, my heart sank. It was tiny, with barely enough room for a bed and a small easel in the corner.
“Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad,” Mom said, pulling me into a hug. “This place may be small, but it’s full of possibilities.”
I tried to smile, but it felt forced. “Do you miss us, Mom?”
Rear view of a woman sketching a picture on a white board | Source: Pexels
Her eyes glistened. “Every day, Iva. But sometimes, we have to make hard choices to find happiness.”
As I left that day, I heard her humming as she unpacked her paints. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in years.
“I’ll see you next weekend, okay?” Mom called out as I reached the door.
I turned back, forcing a smile. “Yeah, Mom. Next weekend.”
Close-up of a woman tearing up | Source: Pexels
Dad wasted no time moving on. His new wife, Karen, was everything he wanted Mom to be — organized, practical, and completely unartistic.
“See, Iva? This is how a real household should run,” Dad said one evening, gesturing around the spotless kitchen.
I nodded absently, my eyes drawn to the near-bare walls where Mom’s paintings used to hang. “It’s… nice, Dad.”
Front angle view of a spotless kitchen | Source: Unsplash
Karen beamed. “I’ve been teaching Iva some great cleaning tips, haven’t I, dear?”
I forced a smile, thinking of the weekends spent with Mom, hands covered in paint, creating worlds on canvas. “Yeah, it’s… really useful. Thanks, Karen.”
Dad clapped his hands together. “That’s my girl. Now, who wants to watch some TV?”
As we settled in the living room, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing for the messy, colorful evenings of my childhood.
Rear view of a woman painting a picture in the garden | Source: Pexels
The years rolled by, and I grew used to the new normal. Weekdays with Dad and Karen in their immaculate house and weekends with Mom in her cramped apartment. But something was always missing.
One Friday evening, as I was packing for my weekend visit, Dad knocked on my door.
“Iva, honey, can we talk?”
I looked up, surprised. “Sure, Dad. What’s up?”
A serious-looking man sitting on a chair | Source: Pexels
He sat on the edge of my bed, looking uncomfortable. “Your Mom called. She… she’s getting married again.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Married? To who?”
“Some guy named John. They’ve been dating for a while, apparently.”
I sat down hard, my mind reeling. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Dad shrugged. “You know your mother. Always living in her own little world.”
A shocked young woman covering her face | Source: Pexels
I bristled at his tone but said nothing. As he left the room, I stared at my half-packed bag, wondering what this would mean for our weekends together.
Fast forward to last weekend. I hadn’t seen Mom in months, busy with college and work. But now, here I was, pulling up to her new house, my stomach churning with nerves.
What if this John guy was just another version of Dad?
A car parked outside a house | Source: Pexels
Mom greeted me at the door, practically glowing. “Iva! Oh, I’ve missed you!” She hugged me tight, smelling of lavender and linseed oil, a scent that instantly brought me back to childhood.
John appeared behind her, a warm smile on his face. “So this is the famous Iva! Your Mom’s told me so much about you.”
We chatted for a while, and I couldn’t help but notice how Mom seemed to stand taller and laugh easier. There was a spark in her eyes I hadn’t seen in years.
A happy senior woman smiling | Source: Pexels
“How’s college going?” Mom asked, pouring me a cup of tea.
“It’s good. Busy, but good,” I replied, watching her closely. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me about John earlier?”
She looked down, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Oh, honey. I wanted to, but… I guess I was scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“That you wouldn’t approve. That you’d think I was replacing your father.”
A smiling senior woman wearing eyeglasses | Source: Pexels
I reached out and took her hand. “Mom, all I want is for you to be happy.”
She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining. “I am, Iva. I really am.”
“Iva,” John said suddenly, “there’s something I’d like to show you. Follow me.”
Curious, I followed John down a hallway. He stopped at a closed door, his hand on the knob. “Your Mom’s been working on something special,” he said, grinning. “Ready?”
He swung the door open, and as I stepped inside, my jaw dropped.
Grayscale close-up of a man’s hand on a doorknob | Source: Pexels
The room was a gallery. Mom’s gallery.
Her paintings covered every wall, beautifully framed and lit. Easels displayed works in progress, and there were even a few sculptures of porcelain dolls scattered around.
“John converted this room for me,” Mom said softly from behind me. “He calls it my ‘creativity hub’.”
I turned to her, speechless. She looked… radiant.
A young woman looking at paintings displayed on the wall | Source: Pexels
John wrapped an arm around her waist. “I organize shows here sometimes. Invite friends, family, and local art lovers. Florence’s work deserves to be seen.”
Mom blushed. “John even set up a website to sell my paintings. He handles all the business stuff so I can focus on painting and sculpting.”
I felt tears prick my eyes. “Mom, this is… amazing.”
Grayscale of a teary-eyed young woman looking up | Source: Pexels
“Your Mom’s talent is extraordinary,” John said, his voice full of pride. “I just wanted to give her a space where she could really shine.”
I walked around the room, taking in each piece. There were landscapes I recognized from our old neighborhood, portraits of people I’d never met, and abstract pieces that seemed to pulse with emotion.
“Do you remember this one?” Mom asked, pointing to a small canvas in the corner.
Close-up display of paintings and assorted artwork | Source: Pexels
I leaned in, my breath catching. It was a painting of me as a little girl, sitting at our old kitchen table, coloring. The details were perfect — my messy pigtails, the crayon smudges on my cheeks, the look of intense concentration on my face.
“You painted this?” I whispered.
Mom nodded. “It’s one of my favorites. I painted it right after… well, after the divorce. It reminded me of happier times.”
A little girl coloring on a book | Source: Pexels
I hugged her then and there, overcome with emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Mom.”
As we stood there, surrounded by my Mom’s art, memories flooded back. Dad’s angry voice, Mom’s quiet sighs, the tension that had filled our house for so long.
And now, this. A room filled with light and color… and love.
A young woman embracing a senior woman | Source: Pexels
“You know,” John said, his voice gentle, “when I first met your Mom, she was so hesitant to show me her work. Can you believe that?”
Mom laughed softly. “I was scared you’d think it was silly.”
“Silly?” John looked at her like she’d hung the moon. “Flo, your art is what made me fall in love with you. It’s a part of who you are.”
A man smiling | Source: Pexels
I watched them, the way they looked at each other, the easy affection between them. This was what love was supposed to look like.
“I’m so happy for you, Mom,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes.
Mom pulled me into a hug, her arms strong and sure. “Oh, sweetie. I’m happy too. Happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”
Close-up of a happy senior couple holding flowers | Source: Pexels
As we stood there, surrounded by canvases bursting with color and life, I realized something profound. Mom’s art, once stifled and undervalued, was now flourishing, and so was she. And I knew, without a doubt, that she had found her true love.
“So,” John said, clapping his hands together. “Who’s hungry? I was thinking we could grill out on the patio.”
Mom’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that sounds wonderful! Iva, will you stay for dinner?”
A cheerful senior woman smiling | Source: Pexels
I looked at them both, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “I’d love to,” I said, smiling. “I’d really love to.”
As we walked out of the gallery, I took one last look around. The room was more than just a showcase for Mom’s talent. It was a testament to the power of love… real love… to nurture and uplift.
And as I followed Mom and John to the kitchen, laughing at some joke he’d made, I felt truly at home for the first time in years.
A gallery of paintings | Source: Unsplash
Leave a Reply