The phone buzzed in my palm like a trapped insect. His voice slithered through the receivercloying, familiar, the same tone that once whispered eternal vows.
I traced frost patterns on the windowpane with my fingernail. Two years of silence shattered by one call from James, my ex-husband. Nothing good ever followed that voice.
“Emily, say something. I need a favour.”
“Im listening,” I replied, my words brittle as a frozen twig.
He hesitated, testing the waters before the plunge. “Its awkward, but Lena and I are in a bind. Had to leave our flat, cant find another.”
I let the silence stretch. Each of his words was a pebble dropped into the still pond of my composure.
“Could wejust for a few monthsstay at the cottage? Well be ghosts, you wont even know were there.”
*”Me and the new wife have nowhere to go. Let us use the cottage.”* As casual as passing the salt.
As if thered been no lies, no affair, no walking out while I pieced myself back together.
A memory flashedtwenty years younger, building that cottage. James, sunburnt and grinning with a hammer in hand: *”Our fortress, Em! No matter what happens, well always have this place. Our retreat.”*
Poisonous words now. *Our retreat.* Hed brought another woman into it. Now he wanted to make her its mistress.
“James, have you lost your mind?” I kept my voice steady.
“Emily, please. Weve got nowhere else. Lenas pregnant. We cant sleep on the street.”
A blade twisted where it hurt most. Children. The one thing we never had. For them, it came easy.
I closed my eyes. Two beasts warred inside meone screaming to hurl the phone, the other whispering: *This is your chance. Not to forgive. To balance the scales.*
“We swore to support each other, no matter what,” he pressed, exploiting the *good girl* Id been for him.
Another memory: our wedding. Him gazing into my eyes: *”Ill never betray you.”* Fifteen years later, packing his bags: *”Sorry. Feelings fade.”*
Betrayal. Then silence. Now he needed help.
Cold clarity crystallised in my mind. A plan formedbrutal, perfect.
“Fine,” I said, startling myself with my own calm. “You can stay.”
Relief crackled down the line. He babbled thanks, promises, how he *knew* Id come through. I stopped listening.
“The keys where its always been. Under the stone by the porch.”
“God, Em, youre a lifesaver!”
I ended the call. The trap was set. Now to wait.
Two days passed, each phone chime a jolt to my nerves. Hed call againneeding reassurance I was still hooked.
The phone rang Saturday morning.
“Hi! Were settled in, place is great,” James chirped, his tone already proprietary. “Needs workcobwebs, overgrown gardenbut well fix it up.”
My fingers whitened on the counter. *Well fix it up.* *My home.*
“I didnt ask you to *fix* anything. I let you stay.”
“Dont be like that, Em. Lena says the airs perfect for the baby. Shes picked a spot for peonies. Right under the bedroom window.”
*Our* bedroom. Where the wallpaper still bore claw marks from the cat.
“Dont touch my roses,” I managed.
“Who wants thorns anyway?” he snorted. “Lena prefers peonies. Listen, the attics full of your junk. Boxes, old clothes. Can I dump them in the shed?”
A flashback: our first flat. James “upgrading” the bathroom, ripping out tiles Mum and I spent weeks choosing. *”Theyre dated, Em. Ill make it modern.”* The resultcrooked, cheap, a budget hemorrhage. His initiatives always cost me too much.
“Leave my things alone, James.”
“Why cling to rubbish?” His patience frayed. “We need space! Cant you be reasonable? Lenas stressedits bad for the baby!”
A whisper, then Lenas saccharine voice: *”James, dont argue. Emily, we mean no harm. We just need room for the crib, the pram”*
A performance. He pushed, she softened. Expecting me to melt and hand everything over.
“I said: dont touch my things. Dont plant in my garden. Live there and be grateful.”
“*Grateful?*” he exploded. “Fifteen years I wasted on you! And you begrudge us *space*? Know what? Im changing the shed locklost the key. Collect your boxes when we leave.”
The line died.
Through the window, grey London sprawled. He wasnt just living in my homehe was erasing me. The new lock wasnt rudeness; it was a declaration of war.
Fine. War it would be.
I waited a week. Met friends, worked, pretended normality. Beneath it, my plan hardened.
Next Saturday, I drove to the cottage. Unannounced. Parked around the bend and crept up like a thief.
First, the carnage: my mothers rose bushes, ripped up by the roots, piled by the fence like corpses. In their placefresh soil, pale shoots. Peonies.
Something inside me snapped. This wasnt just arrogance. It was desecration.
I circled the house. New wicker furniture on the porch. Ugly floral curtains in the windows. They were nesting. Sinking roots.
The shed door hung openthe one hed re-locked. Inside, my boxes were gutted, contents strewn across the floor. Mums letters, their ribbon undone, lying in a puddle. My diaries, pages torn out.
Atop the wreckagemy wedding dress. Once white, now soiled with grease and dirt. A beer bottle beside it.
They hadnt just cleared space. Theyd relished destroying what mattered to me.
Enough.
The *good girl* Emilyafraid of conflict, eager to pleasedied in that shed, staring at her trampled past. In her place rose something calm. Ice-cold. Ruthless.
No shouting. No storming in. Just a silent walk back to the car.
My hands stayed steady on the wheel. My mindempty, yet razor-focused.
First stop: a hardware shop. The heaviest padlock and chain I could find.
At dawn, I wrapped the chain around the gate and snapped the lock shut.
Then I waited in the car, watching.
At ten, James ambled out, stretching. He yanked the gateonce, twicethen froze, staring at the chain.
His relaxation became panic. He rattled the gate uselessly.
Lena scurried out, her shriek piercing through the glass.
The phone rang.
“What the hell? Youve locked us in!”
“Im securing my property,” I said, voice glacial. “You proved locks mean nothing when you broke into my shed.”
“What shed? Youre insane! Lenas pregnantwhat if she needs an ambulance? Open this now!”
“An ambulance? Of course. Ill call the police instead. Report trespassing, vandalism, theft. Theyll have tools to open the gate.”
Silence. Lenas sniffles.
“Trespassing? *You* let us in!”
“I allowed temporary shelter. You assumed ownership. Dug up my roses, turned the shed into a tip. You crossed a line, James.”
“Who cares about your junk?” he roared. “Youd jail us over *rubbish*?”
“Its not rubbish. Its my life. What you betrayed, then tried to destroy.”
I hung up and dialed 999. Calmly gave my address: intruders on my property, refusing to leave.
The police arrived swiftly. I handed them the deed.
“They claim you invited them,” an officer said.
“I allowed my ex temporary refuge. He acted like the ownerbreaking locks, destroying my things. I demanded they leave. They refused. I secured the gate while waiting for you. Look what they did to the garden.”
One officer examined the uprooted roses. James ranted; Lena clutched her belly theatrically.
“Pack your things. Youve got half an hour,” the sergeant said.
Their humiliation was my reward. They slunk out like scolded dogs. Lena shot me venomous glares; James stared at the ground, mute.
When theyd vanished, I walked my land, surveying the damagethe roses, the curtains, the trampled past.
No triumph. Just quiet certainty: the fortress stood.
Battered, but mine again. And no one would ever dictate terms in my world again.
