Victor slammed the front door, tossed my handbag onto the hall table and marched out, refusing to hear a word of explanation.
Youve taken my debit card again! he roared, phone already glued to his ear.
I was at the sink, scrubbing dishes, sleeves damp and apron splashed.
What card? I asked, wiping my hands on a towel. I havent touched yours.
Dont lie! It was in my wallet on the nightstand and now its gone!
Victor, I swear I didnt take it. Maybe you misplaced it yourself?
Me? Im never careless! I always put it in the same spot. And youre always rummaging through my things!
I sighed and dried my hands. Eighteen years of marriage had taught me to expect these outbursts, but each one still hit a nerve.
Calm down, love. Lets look together. Maybe it fell somewhere.
No point looking! You took it because you want to splash my money again!
What money? I earn my own wages!
Your teachers peanuts wont buy you a cup of tea!
I clenched my jaw. As a primaryschool teacher my pay was modest, but it was something.
Alright, lets just find the card without the drama.
Victor snorted, stormed out of the kitchen and I heard the clatter of drawers being slammed in the bedroom.
I went back to the plates, pots and the usual Mondaynight routine: after work Id cooked dinner, fed Victor and our daughter, Olivia, who was now tucked away in her room doing homework.
A shout echoed from the hallway.
Nat! Come here!
I wiped my hands and walked over. Victor was holding my handbag, dumping its contents onto the nightstand.
What on earth are you doing?
Checking! If youre going to nab my stuff, I have the right to peek at yours!
Victor, thats not right. Put the bag back where it belongs!
Out tumbled my wallet, phone, comb, lipstick and a pack of tissues. Then a metallic clink a set of keys. Not the ones I always carry, but a completely different bunch.
Victor froze, turning the keys over in his hand.
What are those?
I dont know, I admitted, genuinely puzzled. How did they get in my bag?
You dont know? Foreign keys in your bag and youre clueless?
I really dont understand how they ended up here.
He stared at the keys, then at me, his face flushing.
Whose flat do these belong to, Nat?
No idea!
Lying! Youve got a lover, and these are his keys!
The floor seemed to drop away beneath me.
What? A lover? Have you lost your mind?
Then explain how foreign keys appeared in your bag!
I dont know! Maybe someone put them in by mistake!
By mistake? Who would accidentally toss keys into a strangers bag?
Well maybe a colleague mixed them up
Dont lie! I get it now youre having an affair!
Victor, thats not true! Ive never cheated on you!
Silence! he shouted, hurling the keys onto the carpet. Eighteen years together and this is how you repay me?
I didnt do anything wrong! Lets talk this through!
No point. Pack your things and get out!
I stood frozen.
What did you say?
I said get out of my flat! I dont keep adulterers under my roof!
This is our flat! We live here together with our daughter!
This is my flat! Its in my name! I can kick anyone out!
Victor, please stop! Listen to me!
I wont listen! Im fed up with your lies! Out you go!
He snatched my coat from the hanger and tossed it at me.
Leave, I said!
Olivia peeked out of the hallway, eyes wide. She was fourteen, sensitive to any parental clash.
Dad, whats happening?
Olivia, go to your room, I said.
No, Victor snapped, looking at his daughter. Let her see what kind of mother she has.
Victor, stop! Not in front of the child!
Then leave yourself! I dont want to see you here!
Victors face was beet-red, fists clenched, eyes blazing. Id never seen him like this; he was hottempered but never this extreme.
Fine, I whispered. Ill go. This is a misunderstanding, Victor. Ive done nothing wrong.
Out!
I slipped on my coat, grabbed the bag and, as I turned, the same mysterious keys tumbled out onto the floor. Victor kicked them away.
Dont even think about picking them up! Let them lie as proof!
The door slammed behind me with a click. I stood on the landing, bewildered. Ten minutes ago Id been washing dishes in my kitchen; now I was outside my own flat, kicked out by my husband.
My feet carried me down the stairs and out onto the street. It was a cold October evening, the wind cutting through my thin coat. I fumbled for my phone. Who could I call? My parents were long gone, my sister lived up north, my friend Irene was cramped in a tiny flat with three kids I couldnt possibly dump her.
My phone buzzed. A message from Irene:
Nat, sorry, I forgot to mention I left the school keys in your bag when we were having tea in the staffroom. You stepped out for some paperwork, so I slipped them in. Ill collect them tomorrow morning, okay? Thanks for holding onto them!
I read the text three times. School keys. Irene, the deputy head, always kept a spare set for emergencies and had asked me to look after them while she dealt with the education office. Id agreed, then forgotten.
My hands trembled as I dialed Victor. The line rang, clicked, rang again. I tried once more the same dead silence.
I typed a quick text: Victor, those are school keys! Irene left them! Its a mixup! No reply.
I leaned against the stairwell, the chill seeping through my coat. My mind was a blank. I started walking aimlessly, eventually ending up at the bus stop and sitting on a bench. An elderly lady with shopping bags shuffled over.
Everything alright, love? she asked kindly, noticing my pallor.
My husband threw me out because of a misunderstanding over some keys, I sighed, forcing a smile.
The husband, eh? What did he think youd done?
Steal his money, apparently.
She chuckled. Men love drama. But kicking a woman out without hearing her side? Thats cruel.
He wont listen now.
Give him time. Hell cool off. A bloke whos angry today will be reasonable tomorrow. And you have a daughter; shell see the truth eventually.
She nodded, then offered:
Ive got a spare room next door. Come over for a cuppa, warm up.
I hesitated, but her persistence won. We walked to the adjoining house, up three flights to a cosy onebed flat, walls adorned with knitted teacosies and fresh flowers on the sill.
Sit down, dear. Ill put the kettle on, she said. Her name was Valerie Johnson, a 72yearold widow who lived alone after her husband passed away years ago.
We sipped tea and nibbled biscuits while she regaled me with tales of past squabbles and reconciliations, insisting that love is stronger than pride.
My phone buzzed again. A text from Olivia:
Mum, where are you? Dads yelling, Im scared.
I typed back: Olivia, dont be frightened. Dads just having a bad day. Go to bed, love you.
She replied: Mum, is it true you have a lover?
My heart stopped. Victor had already turned Olivia against me.
No, love. Thats not true. Theres only you and Dad.
She answered: I believe you, Mum.
Valerie looked at me with a knowing smile.
Your daughter is scared because of his words. Kids are smarter than we think; theyll see whos right.
I need a place to stay tonight, I whispered.
Make yourself at home. Ive got a spare duvet.
The next morning I called the headteacher, Eleanor Hughes. She invited me into her office, noticed my red eyes and pale face, and asked gently, Natalie, are you feeling ill?
Just a bit stressed, I replied.
She listened as I poured out the whole fiasco. Eleanor shook her head. Your husbands behaviour is unacceptable. Hes using the keys as an excuse to control you. Youre a good teacher, a good mum. Dont let him diminish that.
Later that day Olivia called again.
Mum, Dad said you wont come back.
I know, love. Im trying to sort it out.
She whispered, Hes angry because he thinks you stole him.
I hung up, feeling the weight of his lies.
That evening Valerie prepared a simple dinner and asked, How are you holding up?
I told her everything. She offered practical advice: find a permanent place, keep the childrens routine, and, most importantly, stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Within a week another teacher, Sarah, offered me a spare room in her flat for as long as I needed, charging only a symbolic rent. I moved in, set up a modest but warm space of my own.
Work continued, and after school Olivia would visit, wed walk and talk. She believed me, even if shed heard Dads accusations.
Weeks passed and Victor never called. I stopped hoping for a miracle and started living again teaching, cooking, laughing with Valerie over tea.
One evening there was a knock at the door. Victor stood there, hair dishevelled, shoulders slumped.
May I come in? he asked.
Why? I replied.
We need to talk.
I let him in. He glanced around my tiny room, then sat heavily.
Im sorry, Nat. I was wrong. I didnt listen, I kicked you out. It was stupid.
Yes, it was.
Im sorry for accusing you, for shouting, for putting Olivia in the middle. It was just the keys school keys, Irene explained everything. I was jealous and angry.
You humiliated me, Victor. In front of our daughter, you called me a cheat and threw me out of our home.
I know. I was a fool.
What now?
I want you back. Olivia misses you, the house feels empty without you.
I looked at him, feeling the old affection flicker but also the sharp sting of betrayal.
I need time to think.
What do you need to think about?
Whether I want to return after everything you did.
He stood, approached me, and said, Natalie, I love you. Ill change, I promise.
Love isnt just words, Victor. Its actions. Your actions have shown me you dont trust me.
Ill trust you! I swear!
Promises are easy. Remember when we married? You promised love and respect. Where was that respect when you kicked me out?
He lowered his head.
Youre right. I messed up. Give me a chance to make it right.
I need at least a week, maybe two, to sort my feelings.
He nodded. Ill wait.
I called Valerie to tell her what had happened.
See? I told you hed come round. Now its up to you.
Im torn. Eighteen years, a daughter, a life together. But you humiliated me.
People mess up. The question is whether he truly changes.
If he repeats it, Ill leave for good. But maybe he can prove hes different.
I thought it over for a few days, weighing the pros and cons. Victor called daily, asking how I was, never pressing. Olivia also called, pleading for me to return.
Mom, Dads nicer now. Hes cooking, cleaning, saying he gets how hard it was for me.
I need a bit more time, love.
Okay, but were waiting for you.
Two weeks later I finally decided. I called Victor.
Ill come back, but only on one condition.
Whats that?
No more accusations without hearing my side first. If something bothers you, just ask. No shouting, no blame, no humiliation.
I promise. Ill keep my word.
And apologise to Olivia for turning her against me.
Ill do that.
Ill be back on Sunday.
On Sunday I packed my few belongings, thanked Sarah for her hospitality, and visited Valerie one last time.
So, youre going back? she asked, smiling.
Yes. Im giving him another chance.
Good. Family matters, but dont lose yourself.
At home Victor greeted me with bags in hand, Olivia ran into my arms and clung tightly. The flat looked tidy, a modest dinner set out on the table.
This is my creation, Victor announced proudly, his steak a little overcooked but his effort obvious.
Its sweet of you, I replied, laughing at the crooked salad.
After dinner, when Olivia was tucked into bed, Victor and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. He apologized again, vowed to change. I listened, choosing to believe, because love, after all, does give people second chances.
Life settled back into a familiar rhythm work, home, family. Victor actually helped more, asked about my day, and the occasional argument was now a calm discussion rather than a fullblown scene.
Six months later, Victor thanked me for the second chance.
Thanks for not giving up, he said.
And thank you for finally listening, I replied.
We smiled over tea, planning a modest holiday, just a regular family whod survived a storm and learned that respect and communication are the real foundations of any home.
