**Diary Entry 10th November**
I came home today and found my husband had packed my things into bin bags.
“No, explain this to me,” I demanded, arms crossed, glaring at the monstrous cream leather sofa that now dominated our once-cozy living room. “Why? The old one was perfectly fine!”
David barely glanced up from his phone. “Fine? Emily, it was fifteen years old. The springs were poking through, the fabric was threadbare. You complained about it yourself when guests stayed over.”
“I said it needed reupholsteringnot replacing with this this eyesore! We were supposed to be saving to renovate the bathroom!”
“I decided the living room was more important. Its time we stopped living like were stuck in the past. Look at itmodern, stylish. Genuine leather. Italian design.”
“Italian?” I laughed bitterly. “David, we live in a semi-detached in Croydon, not a palazzo in Rome. Where did you even get the money? You said your bonus was cut.”
Finally, he looked at me. His expression was cold, detached. It sent a shiver down my spineI hadnt seen that look in years.
“Found it,” he said flatly. “Dont worry, I didnt take out a loan. Consider it a gift to the family.”
“A gift no one asked for! You just bulldozed ahead, like always!”
I stormed off to the bedroom, biting back tears. Slamming the door wouldve felt childish, so I shut it quietly instead. Lately, our marriage had felt like walking on thin iceDavid distant, constantly “working late,” answering my questions in monosyllables. Id blamed midlife crises, stress, work troubles. Told myself it was temporary.
Sitting on the edge of our bed, I took in the familiar roomthe dressing table David had built me twenty years ago, the embroidered picture Id stitched, the old armchair where I read. Just a sofa, I reasoned. Wed survive. Maybe he meant well.
Then I opened the wardrobe.
The right sidewhere my dresses, blouses, and suits always hungwas empty. Just a few bare hangers. My pulse spiked. I yanked open the drawerslingerie, jumpers, all gone. A cold dread rose as I spotted them: three bulging black bin bags by the balcony door. Trembling, I untied one. My favourite blue dressthe one Id worn to my sisters anniversarywas crumpled on top, reeking of mothballs. Beneath it, my dressing gown, the jumper Mum had knitted me
The bedroom door opened. David stood there, phone-free, face eerily calm.
“What is this?” My voice didnt sound like mine.
“Your things,” he said evenly.
“I can see that. Why are they in bin bags? Some deep-cleaning spree?”
He smirkedugly, twisted. “In a way, yes. Ive made packing easier for you.”
“Packing? For what?”
“For you to leave. Today.”
The room tilted. I gripped the dresser. “What?”
“I want you gone. Ive met someone else. Its over.”
*Someone else.* The words slapped me. Twenty-five yearsour son, James, the home wed builtand now this stranger stood before me, ice in his veins.
“Who?”
“Doesnt matter. Shes moving in tomorrow.”
Ah. The sofa. For *her.*
“Twenty-five years,” I whispered. “Youre just throwing us away?”
“Dont be dramatic. Good years, but theyre done. People change. I dont love you anymore.”
Each word shattered glass inside me. Our wedding, bringing James home from hospital, painting these walls togetherwhere had it all gone?
“And me? Where do I go?”
“Youve got James. The house is mineyou know its from my parents. No alimony; youre employable. So”
“Get out.”
He blinked. “Ill leave cash for a taxi.”
When the door closed, I collapsed among my scattered things. No tearsjust a hollow, swallowing void. Mechanically, I packed a holdall: photo albums, Mums trinket box, documents. The rest? Already trash.
James answered on the first ring. “Mum? Whats wrong?”
“Can I stay with you? Just for a while”
“He kicked you out?” His voice hardened. “Call a taxi. Come now. Dont speak to him.”
David didnt look up as I dragged the bags past him. The “taxi money” lay on the consoleblood money. I left it.
Jamess cramped flat in Hackney was a sanctuary. He hugged me fiercely, made mint tea, hung my clothes in his wardrobe. “Youre home,” he said.
Over tea, he admitted hed seen it coming. “Dads been different for months. All those work trips. You wouldnt listen.”
Guilt gnawed at me. I hadnt *wanted* to see.
“Who is she?”
“Some colleague. Younger, obviously.”
The knife twisted. Forty-nine, crows-feet, an old dressing gownI was obsolete.
Days blurred. I stared at walls, jumped at noises. Waiting for David to call, to say it was a mistake. He didnt.
Then my best friend, Claire, barged in. “Enough moping. Were fighting back.”
She dragged me to a solicitor. The house was Davids, but the car? The holiday cottage in Devon? Half mine.
“Stand your ground,” the lawyer said. “Hell lowball you. Dont fold.”
I didnt. The court awarded me my share. Not fortune, but enough for a studio flat.
I took a bookkeeping course, landed a job at a small estate agency. Modest pay, but *mine.* Colleagueswomen like mebecame lifelines.
James helped me move into my new flat. “Fresh start,” he said, assembling IKEA furniture.
Then, months later, David appeared at my doorstep. Gaunt, shadows under his eyes.
“Emily its over with her. She said I was too old.” His voice cracked. “Can we talk? Remember”
I studied himthe pleading look, the grey at his temples. And I remembered the bin bags. The indifference. The cruelty.
“No, David. Some things dont get remembered.”
I stepped inside, shut the door. Tomorrow was uncertainlove, happiness, none of it guaranteed. But one thing was: no one would ever pack my life into a bin bag again.
I was home.
