My husband’s dad and mom refuse to take down photos of his first spouse and see me as an imposter. If solely they knew their ex-daughter-in-law’s sordid secret…

The first time I spotted it, I assumed it was an oversight. After all, we all have things in our homes – knick-knacks, ornaments and keepsakes – that we walk past for years, without even noticing them.

But following a gentle intervention from my husband, I noticed it was still there several months later, where it had no right to be.

I’m referring to the photo of my husband’s first wedding day, which sits proudly on a shelf at his parents’ house.

Taken outside a village church in the early 1990s, a slim 24-year-old Mark, with a full head of curls, stands next to his teenage sweetheart, Tina, who wears a frothy frock with a garland of delphiniums on her pretty head.

It’s a photo that really should have been taken down after their divorce ten years ago – and certainly should have been consigned to a drawer after he met me, and we married in 2018.

But no, there it remains. Admittedly, it is no longer in the main family gallery of wedding, christenings and graduation photos above the fireplace. Yet every time I see it perched nearby, this enormous hot bubble of fury and indignation rises in me, knowing the disdain Mark’s parents have for me, through no fault of my own.

Our wedding photo meanwhile – which Mark pointedly took round when we got back from honeymoon – is now in the gallery. But not in the middle, in the place where ‘her’ picture once was, but tagged onto the end, like an after-thought.

They must have gone to the bother of shifting them all around like a game of family Tetris.

And yes, we do look odd up there: a couple of 50-year-olds, not in full wedding regalia, but in smart suits, snapped outside the town hall.

That’s where the problem lies. My husband’s parents – both strict Roman Catholics, meaning they don’t agree with divorce – don’t regard me as his ‘proper’ wife. They much prefer his first wife and have never accepted me as a valid member of their family – and that photo of Mark’s first wedding is a way of expressing their disapproval.

Of course, they’d never articulate this to me or Mark; actually addressing issues is not their way. They much prefer the path of simmering, silent resentment and passive aggression.

I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, and Mark is forever pleading with me to get over it, saying they’re just a couple of 80-year-olds who’re set in their ways, but it still rankles.

After all, there’s so much they don’t know about my husband’s ex-wife. Details that would destroy the image they have of her as the ‘perfect’ young virgin bride, whom their beloved son married ‘the right way’ in the presence of God.

If only they knew what a promiscuous, deceitful, nasty piece of work she was throughout their 18-year marriage – and how miserable she made their son – I know they’d consign that wretched photograph to the bin. More importantly, perhaps they’d remove their blinkers long enough to see how happy I make him, and how I should be treated accordingly.

My own family is disgusted with the way my in-laws behave towards me. I’m so proud of the way they made Mark so welcome from day one – both him and his sons, whom my mum loves like grandchildren. She always greets them with a hug and sends a little gift on their birthdays.

I just get a cheap card, signed ‘From all the family’. They can’t even be bothered to write their individual names.

But it’s not my place to intervene, and Mark doesn’t want to stir up trouble and possibly damage the relationship he worked so hard to maintain with his two sons. So my fury smoulders, ignited every time I am forced to walk past that awful wedding photo.

I met Mark through my work as a software designer in 2015. I was struck by this lovely, gentle man who, even from our first conversation, I could tell was emotionally bruised and carrying an awful lot of baggage.

Over too much wine – he was, by his own admission, drinking an unhealthy amount – he told me how he seized business trips away as they provided a reprieve from his horrible situation at home.

By that point he was living in a rented flat, having moved out of the marital home the previous year, where his ex-wife remained with their two teenage sons. They were co-parenting, but the boys hated their ‘dad weekends’, he said, being away from all their friends, gadgets and nice big house – and having to share a bedroom in his poky bachelor pad.

It didn’t help that his ex, Tina, was constantly on the phone to them throughout the weekend, reinforcing the idea that this was something to be endured, undermining him and placing a wedge between him and the boys, whom he adored.

He saw one text from her, saying: ‘Is it really awful, poppet? Do you want me to pick you up?’ That had nearly destroyed him.

We started dating when we were in our late 40s and at first I wasn’t sure if I was ready to take on all of this drama and angst. I’d been happily single for five years since splitting from my previous partner. We’d never had children, and I wasn’t very confident around kids.

But Mark grew on me. A kind, funny and good-natured soul, before long we were having a lot of fun together. I introduced him to camping, festivals and lovely long walks in the Dales. He started to drink less, lost weight and got some of his confidence back.

He introduced me to the boys, who were cagey at first – understandably – but soon warmed to me.

Over time, Mark began to open up to me about what had gone on in his marriage. They’d married young, as was the way in his family, as his parents were traditional and very religious. After the boys were born, however, things started to go downhill. Tina had acquired a taste for the finer things in life and kept pushing for a bigger house and more expensive holidays, and they soon got into debt.

Mark was working long hours and was pleased when Tina suddenly developed an interest in tennis and signed up herself and the boys – then aged ten and 13 – for lessons at the local club. He thought it would do her good to have an interest.

Well, it wasn’t just her forehand Tina was getting help with; he found out she was having an affair with one of the coaches after one of the other dads took him aside when he was picking up the boys one evening.

He confronted her, she tearfully confessed, but blamed Mark – the fact he worked long hours, drank too much and was getting fat – for ‘making her seek comfort’ elsewhere.

And, it later transpired, this was just one of many transgressions. Friends have since come forward to say Tina had numerous affairs over the years. The tennis coach was just the first she didn’t get away with.

When, a few months after the bombshell, he told his parents they were splitting up – only saying that he and Tina were no longer happy together – they were devastated. His mother, who had always been very severe towards her children, told him marriage was for life, and it was his duty to his family and his faith to make it work. She also told him he must have been responsible for Tina’s unhappiness.

Nevertheless, they did divorce, the decree absolute coming through in 2014, but not on the grounds of adultery. Tina pleaded for this in return for not claiming half Mark’s (generous) pension and he agreed.

He didn’t want the boys to be hurt any more than they already were, so never told them of their mother’s infidelity – and the same went for his parents.

I was introduced to the rest of the family at a barbecue at his parents’ home in 2016. It was obvious they were not delighted to meet me. His mother wore a half-cocked sneer the whole afternoon and picked out the most burnt sausage for me off the grill. Tina’s name was casually dropped into conversation with merry abandon. I remember Melbourne being mentioned. ‘You and Tina went there, didn’t you, Mark?’ one of them said, with a smile. ‘You had a lovely time.’ That was also when I first noticed her wedding photo.

I raged all the way home. Mark kept saying it wasn’t personal, and to give it time.

When we bought a house together in 2017, invitations to the housewarming were politely declined, while I heard, through a friend of a friend, that Tina had been spotted on a night out with one of Mark’s sisters recently.

For all his good points, Mark is very much a victim of his upbringing, and buries his head in the sand when he hears this sort of thing. He’s never brought it up with his family and prefers not to talk about it when I mention it.

For our wedding, we’d both agreed we wanted a civil ceremony (Mark is very much the lapsed Catholic nowadays), then we celebrated with a big party afterwards at a country pub.

His parents stopped by for one glass of champagne and skedaddled. We both breathed a huge sigh of relief when they’d gone, although I was a bit sad. It felt like such a missed opportunity; this could have been the moment when they finally chose to accept me – and I would have forgiven them – but it never happened.

His sisters stayed, however; we’d put quite a bit of money behind the bar.

The boys – then 18 and 21 – had a great time. Seeing them larking around on the dancefloor with their dad made me realise what a fine and honourable job he’d done, maintaining harmony for the greater good. I’d married a truly decent man.

I hoped they went home and told their mum all about it.

Today, Mark and I are very happy, and I have a great relationship with his sons, who are lovely young men, both in their early 20s. I’ve never met Tina; she and Mark communicated by text when the boys were still young, and now have no contact at all. I get snippets via the boys; she’s had a few boyfriends over the years but is currently single.

I see Mark’s parents as often as I have to… which isn’t very often.

Christmas is coming up, and I know there’ll be family get-togethers I won’t be able to avoid. I’ll do my duty as I’m treated with cold indifference, while the ghost of his ex-wife loiters in the background – and on the shelf in the dining room.

And who knows, maybe this is the year that photograph will have a little accident after a festive sherry or two… Stranger things have happened.

• Sarah Martin is a pseudonym. Names have been changed