Youre not my wife, youre just a lodger, Victor said, his voice flat as a kitchen tile.
Wheres my shirt? His shout ricocheted through the flat. I hung it on a chair yesterday!
Emily stood at the stove, stirring porridge, not turning her head. Steam rose from the pot, gathering in the extractor like tiny droplets. Outside, rain hammered the windows, the glass fogged and grey from the autumn drizzle.
Your shirts in the wash. It was dirty, she replied evenly.
Dirty?! I only wore it once! Victor stormed into the kitchen, hair wild, face flushed. Ive got a meeting in an hour and youve decided to launder my shirt!
Victor, there was a coffee stain. I couldnt leave it, Emily turned, her eyes tired. Take another one.
There arent any decent ones! Theyre all creased! Do you even iron anything? He flung open the wardrobe, pulling shirts out, hurling them onto the floor.
Emily clenched the ladle until the knuckles whitened, counting silently to ten. One, two, three
And what do you do all day, sitting at home? Victor kept pulling at the crumpled white shirt. Youre good for nothing! No order, no proper meals!
Theres porridge on the stove, mince pies in the fridge, you can reheat them, Emily said softly.
Porridge! Mince pies! Im forty and you feed me like a child! Victor fastened his buttons, tugging at his collar.
Emily turned back to the cooker. A lump rose in her throat, her eyes burned, but she didnt cry. Shed learned long ago not to weep in front of him.
Victor slammed the door so hard the china on the sideboard rattled. Emily was left alone in the kitchen. She turned off the hob, covered the porridge with a lid. No one needed her. Victor left, angry, having skipped breakfast. Emily didnt eat either; a tight knot knotted her stomach.
She sat at the table, wrapped her hands around a mug of cooling tea. Outside the rain whispered against the glass, grey streams running down the panes. It was Octobercold, wet, bleak.
Emily had lived with Victor for eight years. Theyd met at the officeshe a secretary, he a sales manager. Hed seemed a prince then: tall, confident, firm handshake. He courted her with restaurant dates and bouquets. At thirtytwo, never married, orphaned, living alone in a tiny rented room, she fell for him completely.
Six months later Victor proposed. She accepted without hesitation. The wedding was modest, just close friends. Victor rented a twobedroom flat; they moved in together. The first year was happy. Victor was attentive; Emily tried to be the perfect wifecooking, cleaning, ironing, greeting him after work.
Then things shifted. Victor began staying out late, coming home sullen and irritable. He complained about work pressures, about bosses, about scarce clients. Emily tried to be supportive, but he brushed her off. He started nitpicking: soup too salty, shirt not perfectly pressed, the house too noisy when he wanted peace.
Emily endured, telling herself it was a rough patch. Months passed, and the situation worsened. Victor grew colder, more distant. Conversations dwindled to necessities. He would eat in silence, plant himself before the telly, or retreat to his room with his phone.
She asked, Whats wrong? Why have you changed? He answered, Youre imagining things. Im just tired. One day he added, If youre bored, get a job.
Emily had quit work after the wedding because Victor had said, Why bother with an office? Stay home, rest. I can provide for both of us. She settled into domestic life, reading, strolling in the park. When Victor later suggested she return to work, she hesitated. The job market had shifted; her age and lack of recent experience worked against her.
She sent out a few résumés, but responses were scarce. Two interviews ended politely with rejections. She lowered her expectations; Victor never raised the subject again.
That morning, another argument erupted over the shirt. Emily finished her lukewarm tea, started clearing the kitchenwashing the pot, wiping the stove, polishing the tablehands moving on autopilot while her mind raced. What had she done wrong? Why did Victor treat her this way? Had he stopped loving her, or never loved her at all?
Her phone buzzed. A text from her childhood friend Olivia: Emily, fancy a coffee? Meet at the station?
She almost declined, then replied, Sure, three at the tube.
Olivia, her only close friend, lived with a husband and kids, but they still found time for each other.
They met at a café near the Underground. Olivia arrived, breathless, coat damp, hair plastered to her cheeks.
Sorry Im late! Traffic was terrible! she shrugged off her coat and sat opposite Emily. How are you? You look off.
Emily forced a smile, it came out crooked.
Im fine, just exhausted.
Whats exhausting you? Youre home all day, Olivia said, ordering a cappuccino.
Exactly, Emily said, eyes dropping. Victor thinks Im a lazy housewife.
Again? Olivia frowned. Emily, how long will you put up with that? He doesnt value you!
Olivia, hes my husband. I love him, Emily whispered.
Do you think he loves you? When was the last time he said something nice, held you, kissed you, asked about your day?
Emily searched her memory. A month? Two? Six months? Victor hadnt shown affection for ages. They lived like neighbours under one roof.
I dont know, she admitted. Maybe its my fault. Maybe Im doing something wrong.
Stop blaming yourself! Olivia grasped her hand. Youre caring, kind. Any man would be lucky to have you. Victor just isnt up to the job.
Emily pulled her hand away. Dont say that.
Fine, I wont, Olivia said, sighing. But thinkdo you want to keep walking on eggshells, pleasing him, only to be met with criticism?
Emily was silent. Olivia sipped her coffee, then asked, So, whats new in your life?
They talked for another hour, but Emily couldnt relax. Olivias words lodged like splinters. Was she really to blame for everything? Was Victor truly indifferent?
That night Victor came home after midnight. Emily lay awake, staring at the ceiling, hearing the door slam, the clatter of dishes, his footsteps down the hallway, the rustle of pajama pants. He entered the bedroom, began to undress.
Victor, have you had dinner? Emily asked quietly.
Yes, he muttered without looking up.
How was the meeting?
Fine.
Victor, can we talk? Emily turned on the bedside lamp, sitting up.
What about? he asked, pulling his pajama trousers up, his face tired, annoyed.
About us. I feel somethings broken. Were drifting apart, Emily chose her words carefully, fearing to say too much.
Everythings fine. Thats your imagination, Victor lay back, facing the wall.
No, Im not imagining! You dont even listen to me! Do you even notice me? Emilys voice trembled.
Im tired, Emily. Lets talk tomorrow, he yawned.
No, now! It matters to me! she reached for his shoulder.
Victor sat up abruptly, irritation flashing across his face. What matters? You want to hear me say I love you? That everythings wonderful? Fine, Emily, I love you, everythings fine! Now leave me to sleep.
You dont love me, Emily whispered. Is that true? You dont love me.
Victor fell silent, averted his gaze. Then, cold and hard, he said, Youre not my wife, youre a lodger. Thats the truth.
Emily froze. The words struck her like a slap. Lodger. She could hardly breathe.
What? she managed.
You heard me. You live here, eat my food, spend my money. Whats the point? You cook halfheartedly, clean barely, have no children, wont work. Just a lodger, Victor said, as if commenting on the weather.
Emily could not believe her ears. The man shed spent eight years with, the man shed married, was calling her a lodger.
Victor, how can you say that? Im your wife! tears burst, spilling over.
Wife on paper. In reality youre just a tenant, he snapped, pulling the blanket over himself. Goodnight.
Emily curled into herself, knees to chest, sobbing uncontrollably. How could one sentence erase eight years of love, care, hope?
She rose, left the bedroom, walked to the kitchen, sat on a stool, and wept until the tears ran dry. Then she sat there, empty, hollow.
By morning shed made a decision. She would no longer tolerate being a lodger in her own marriage. If Victor saw her only as a tenant, she had no place in his flat.
When Victor awoke and shuffled to the kitchen, Emily was already dressed, a suitcase at the door.
What are you doing? he asked, surprised.
Im moving out. Since you call me a lodger, I have no reason to stay, Emily replied evenly.
Where will you go? You have no one! Victor protested.
To Olivias. Shes offered me a place until I find a room, Emily said, gripping the handle.
Emily, dont make a scene. I said it in the heat of the moment, Victor stepped forward.
No. You said what you think, and youre right. I was just a lodger. I wont be one any longer, she opened the door.
Emily, wait! Are you serious? his voice trembled with a hint of panic.
Absolutely, she said, stepping into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
She went down the stairs, hailed a taxi, her hands shaking as she dialed Olivias number.
Emily, whats happening? Olivia answered instantly.
Ive left him. Can I come over? Emilys voice cracked.
Of course! Come straight away! Olivia replied.
Olivia met her with open arms, ushered her into her flat, set a strong tea on the table, and listened as Emily poured out everything. Olivia shook her head.
That wretched man! I knew it! she exclaimed. You did the right thing, Emily. Youre brave.
I dont know what to do next, Emily said, clasping the tea mug.
Well figure it out together. Rest first, get your bearings. Stay here as long as you need, Olivia said, hugging her.
Emily stayed with Olivia for a week. Victor called a few times, texted, pleading for her return, claiming hed overreacted. She didnt answer. She needed time to think.
Olivia helped her secure a job as an administrator at a small dental practice. The pay was modest£22,000 a yearbut enough to start fresh. Emily felt alive again, with a routine, responsibilities, and friendly colleagues. The practice owner was fair, the staff supportive.
After a month she rented a single room in a shared housetiny, one window, communal kitchen and shower, but hers. Olivia helped move her furniture, delivered a few essentials. Emily bought fresh bedding, hung curtains, and for the first time in years felt like the owner of her own space, not a guest.
Victor stopped calling. She heard through mutual acquaintances that he was now seeing a young woman from his office, about twentyfive. It hurt, but more than that, it felt like relief. Shed done the right thing.
Six months later Emily filed for divorce. Victor signed the papers without a fight. Their assets were minimaljust the rented flatso the split was quiet.
Emily kept working at the practice, was promoted to senior administrator, salary rising to £30,000. She moved into a onebedroom flat of her own, decorated with flowers on the windowsill, paintings on the wallsher sanctuary.
Olivia once said, Emily, youre glowing. You look younger! It was true; Emily felt lighter, freer, no longer tiptoeing around anyone.
One afternoon a new patient entered the clinica man in his midforties, spectacles, warm smile. He booked an appointment, then chatted with Emily at reception, asking about procedures and costs, genuinely interested. When he left, he slipped a card into her hand:
Names Daniel. If you have any questions, give me a ring.
Emily tucked the card into her coat pocket, later at home turning it over. She wasnt ready for new romance; the wound from the divorce hadnt fully healed.
A couple of days later Daniel returned for his appointment, then lingered, asking her out for coffee after work. Emily hesitated, but his earnest look swayed her.
They met at a café, sipped coffee, talked. Daniel explained he was an engineer, divorced, no children, living alone. Emily shared her story, unvarnished. Daniel listened, nodding.
I get it, he said. My ex treated me like an ATM. After we split, I felt reborn.
Emily smiled. I feel the same.
They met a few more times, casually, without pressurewalks, movies. Daniel was attentive yet unforced. Gradually Emily opened up, feeling safe.
Eventually they became an official couple. Daniel introduced Emily to his friends; she brought him to Olivias. Everyone cheered.
Emily no longer feared. She knew her worth, knew what she wanted, and trusted that she could handle any setback. Shed survived a marriage where Victor had called her a lodger, rebuilt from scratch, and emerged stronger.
One day, by chance, she spotted Victor on the high street, arminarm with the young woman hed been seeing. He glanced at her, a flicker of embarrassment, then nodded politely. Emily smiled back, walked on. No pain, no resentmentjust a past left behind.
Ahead lay a new life with Daniel, her career, her friends, and, most importantly, herself. Emily was truly happy.
