I got home after a long day at work to find my own husband had changed the locks! I couldnt believe it when my key didnt fit anymore. There I stood, outside our flat in London, my heart in pieces. All that effort to save our marriage, and it crumbled in an instant. But what they didnt know was, I was about to teach them a lesson theyd never forget.
“John, its nearly ten at night,” my voice trembled when I called him the evening before. “You promised youd be home by seven!”
He tossed his keys onto the side table without even looking at me.
“Work, Emily. What do you want me to tell my boss? That I have to rush home to my wife?” He sounded irritated, as if I were a burden.
I swallowed my tears, staring at the table Id set for a simple dinnermy birthday dinner. Two candles flickered beside the cake Id bought on my lunch break.
“Yes, John. Exactly that. Just once,” I crossed my arms, fighting back tears. “Todays my birthday.”
He finally glanced at the table. His expression shifted when it clicked.
“God, Em, I forgot” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Clearly,” I replied coldly, a lump in my throat.
“Dont start,” he rolled his eyes. “Im working for us, you know that.”
I laughed bitterly.
“For us?” I asked. “Youre barely home, John. When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Spoke like husband and wife?”
“Thats unfair,” he frowned. “Im building a career for our future.”
“What future? We live like strangers under the same roof!” My voice cracked. “I earn more than you, so dont give me that providing for the family rubbish.”
His face went cold.
“Right, youd throw that in my face,” he said sarcastically. “How am I supposed to compete with my successful wife?”
“Thats not what I meant”
“Enough, Emily. Im going to bed.” He cut me off and walked away, leaving me alone with the cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, trying to convince myself things would get better. He was my husband. I loved him. All marriages have rough patches, dont they? Thats what everyone says.
How wrong I was to forgive so easily.
Wed been married three years, but the last one had been a slow, painful unraveling. No kidsthank God for that. Me, a marketing director, covered most of the bills while John, a salesman, constantly complained about stress, overtime, traffic everything but the truth, which I found out too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I came home early with a splitting headache. All I wanted was painkillers and bed. But as I reached our building in Kensington, something felt off. The doorknob and lock, once brass, were now silver and brand new.
“What the?” I tried my key. It didnt fit.
Tried againnothing. Checked the flat numberdefinitely ours.
Then I saw the note taped to the door, scrawled in Johns handwriting: “This isnt your home anymore. Find somewhere else.”
The ground dropped from under me.
“Are you kidding me?!” I shouted.
I banged on the door, calling for him. Finally, it openedand there he stood, with his mistress behind him, wearing my cashmere robe, a gift from my mother.
“Are you serious?” My voice shook with rage.
“Emily, look” He crossed his arms, smirking. “Ive moved on. Me and Sophie are together now. We need this place. Go crash at someone elses.”
Sophie. The “work colleague” hed mentioned for months. She stepped forward, hands on hips, and sneered,
“Your stuffs in boxes in the garage. Take it and leave.”
I stood frozen, disbelieving. Then I turned and walked to my car, fury boiling inside. They thought they could toss me out like rubbish and get away with it? They were dead wrong.
I needed a plan. A good one.
I called my sister, Lucy.
“Emily? Oh my God, what happened?” She pulled me into her flat the second she saw my tear-streaked face.
I collapsed on the sofa and spilled everything.
“What a complete wanker!” she fumed when I finished. “And that Sophie wearing YOUR robe?”
“The one Mum gave me,” I sobbed. “The cashmere one, remember?”
Lucy marched to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine.
“Drink,” she ordered. “Then we figure out how to ruin them.”
“What can I do?” I took a sip. “The flats in his name. The mortgage was under his creditmine was still recovering from my masters.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes.
“And who paid for everything else?”
“Both of us, but” I stopped, realising. “I bought all of it. The furniture, the appliances, the bathroom renovation last year. Everything.”
“Exactly!” She grinned wickedly. “Whats John got left? An empty flat.”
I opened my banking app and scrolled through statements.
“Ive got every receipt. Always kept them organised.”
“Of course you did, Miss Spreadsheet,” Lucy laughed. “Queen of organisation!”
For the first time that awful day, I felt control returning.
“They think theyve won, dont they?” I whispered.
She clinked her glass against mine.
“Theyve no idea who theyre dealing with.”
The next day, I called my lawyer friend, Fiona.
“What he did is illegal,” she said over coffee. “He cant just change the locks and kick out his wife, even if the flats in his name. Youve got residency rights.”
“I dont want to go back,” I said firmly. “But I want whats mine.”
Fiona smiled.
“Then lets make a list.”
We spent the morning noting everything Id bought: the sofa, the telly, the fridge, even the rugs. By lunch, I had a detailed inventory with receipts, dates, and amounts.
“Impressive,” she approved. “With this, no one can argue.”
“Can I just take it all?”
“Legally, yes. But Id bring a police escort to avoid trouble.”
I remembered Johns smug smile. Sophie in my robe. Their certainty theyd won.
“No,” I said slowly. “Ive got a better idea.”
That same day, I hired a removal company. The owner, Rob, listened to my story and nodded.
“Had a similar case last year,” he said. “Woman caught her husband cheating, took everything while he was out.”
“I need the same,” I replied. “Except I want them there when it happens.”
I waited until Saturday. At noon, the removal team arrived, and I knocked on the door with a smile, ready to take back every bit of the home Id built with my own hands.
