I stand in front of my own house in Manchester, holding a key that no longer fits the brand-new lock, feeling my heart shatter into pieces. The marriage I fought so hard to save has crumbled in an instant. But my cheating husband and his mistress have no idea whats cominga lesson theyll never forget.
James, its almost ten, I say, my voice trembling as I call him the night before. You promised to be home by seven.
He drops his keys on the side table without looking at me.
Work, Lucy. What am I supposed to tell my boss? That I need to go home to my wife? His tone drips with irritation, as if Im nothing but a nuisance.
I swallow hard, staring at the table I set for a simple birthday dinner. Two candles flicker beside the cake I bought during my lunch break.
Yes, James. Thats exactly what you could do. Just once, I cross my arms, holding back tears. Its my birthday.
Finally, he glances at the table. His face twists in realisation.
Damn it, Lucy, I forgot He mutters, running a hand through his hair.
Obviously, I reply coldly, the ache inside me suffocating.
Dont start, he snaps. I work for us, you know that.
I smile bitterly.
For us? I fire back. Youre barely home, James. When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Talked like husband and wife?
Thats unfair, he frowns. Im building a career so we can have a future.
What future? We live like strangers under the same roof! My voice cracks. I earn more than you, so dont hide behind providing for the family.
His expression hardens.
Of course, youd throw that in my face, he scoffs. How am I supposed to keep up with my successful wife?
Thats not what I meant
Enough, Lucy. Im going to bed. He cuts me off and walks away, leaving me alone with a cold cake and melted candles.
I blow them out, whispering to myself that things will get better. Hes my husband. I love him. Every marriage has rough patches, doesnt it?
How wrong I was to forgive him so easily.
Wed been married for three years, but the last one was a slow, painful unravelling. We had no childrena blessing, looking back. My job as a marketing director covered most of our expenses, while James, a sales executive, constantly complained about stress, long hours, trafficeverything except the truth, which I discovered far too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I come home early with a splitting headache. All I want is a painkiller and bed. But as I reach our house on the outskirts of Manchester, something feels off. The doorknob and lock, once brass, now gleam with new silver metal.
What? I murmur, sliding my key in. It doesnt turn.
I try again, but the key wont budge. Confused, I double-check the address. This is definitely my house.
Then I spot a note taped to the door. Jamess familiar handwriting strikes like a blow: This isnt your home anymore. Find somewhere else.
The world tilts. My blood runs cold.
What the hell? I choke out.
I pound on the door, screaming his name. Finally, it swings open. James stands there, and behind him, a woman in my cashmere dressing gowna gift from my mother.
Seriously? My voice shakes with rage and hurt.
Lucy, listen, he crosses his arms, smirking. Ive moved on. Emma and I are together. We need this place. Go stay with someone.
Emma. The same just a coworker hed mentioned for months. She steps forward, hands on hips, and sneers:
Your things are in boxes in the garage. Take them and leave.
I stare at them, stunned. Then I turn and walk to my car, determination boiling inside me. They think they can throw me out like rubbish and get away with it. But I wont let them. I need a planone that hits hard.
I knew exactly who to call.
Lucy? Oh my God, whats wrong? My sister Katie swings her flat door open, takes one look at my tear-streaked face, and yanks me inside. What happened?
I collapse onto her sofa, the story pouring out between sobs.
The absolute bastard! Katie hisses when I finish. And that Emma was wearing your dressing gown?
Mums gift, I sniff, wiping my eyes. The cashmere one, from last birthday.
Katie marches to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of wine.
Drink, she orders. Then we figure out how to ruin them.
What can I do? I take a sip. The flats in Jamess name. The mortgage was under his credit because mine was still recovering from my masters.
Katie narrows her eyes.
And who paid for everything else?
We both, but I stop, realising. I bought everything. The furniture, the appliances, the bathroom renovation last year. All in my name.
Exactly! She grins. What does James have left? An empty flat?
I open my banking app and scroll through transactions.
Ive got every receipt. I always handled the bills.
Of course you did, Miss Organised, she laughs. Queen of spreadsheets!
For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a spark of control.
They think theyve won, dont they? I whisper.
Katie clinks her glass against mine.
Theyve got no idea who theyre dealing with.
The next morning, I call my solicitor friend, Sarah.
What he did was illegal, she says after a sip of coffee. He cant change the locks and kick you out, even if the flats in his name. Youve got rights.
I dont want to go back, I say firmly. But I want whats mine.
Sarah smiles.
Lets make a list.
We spend the morning cataloguing everything I bought for the flat: the sofa, the telly, the fridge, even the rugs. By noon, I have a detailed recordreceipts, dates, amounts.
Impressive, she nods. With this, no one can argue its not yours.
So I can take it all?
Legally, yes. But Id bring a police escort to avoid accusations of trespassing.
I remember Jamess smug grin. Emma in my dressing gown. Their cocky certainty.
No, I say slowly. Ive got a better idea.
That same day, I contact a removal company. The owner, Dave, listens to my story and nods sympathetically.
Had a case like this last year, he says.
The next morning, while James and Emma are out for coffee, the movers arrive with my old key. They strip the flat barenot a single fork I bought with my salary remains. The place is so empty, even the echoes fade into the walls.
