I came home after a long day at work only to find my own husband had changed the locks. I couldnt believe it when my key no longer fit. There I stood, at the door of our flat in London, heart in pieces. All that effort to save our marriage, crumbling in an instant. But what they didnt know was, I was about to teach them a lesson theyd never forget.
James, its nearly ten at night, Id whispered shakily on the phone the evening before. You promised youd be home by seven!
He tossed his keys onto the sideboard without even glancing at me.
Work, Emily. What am I supposed to tell my boss? That Ive got to rush home to my wife? He sounded irritated, as if I were a burden.
I swallowed my tears, staring at the table Id set for a simple anniversary dinner. Two candles flickered beside the cake Id bought on my lunch break.
Yes, James. Exactly that. Just once, I crossed my arms, holding back the sting in my eyes. Todays our anniversary.
Finally, he looked at the table. His expression shifted when it hit him.
Christ, Emily, I forgot he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.
Seems like it, I replied coldly, throat tight.
Dont start, he rolled his eyes. I work for us, you know that.
I let out a bitter laugh.
For us? I asked. Youre barely home, James. When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Talked like husband and wife?
Thats not fair, he frowned. Im building a career for our future.
What future? Were strangers under the same roof! My voice cracked. I earn more than you, so dont give me that providing for the family rubbish.
His face turned to stone.
Of course, youd throw that in my face, he snapped. How am I supposed to compete with my successful wife?
Thats not what I meant
Enough, Emily. Im going to bed. He cut me off and walked away, leaving me alone with the cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, trying to convince myself things would get better. He was my husband. I loved him. All marriages have problems, dont they? Thats what everyone says.
How wrong I was to forgive so easily.
Wed been married three years, but the last one had been a slow, painful unraveling. No childrenthank God for that. Me, a marketing director, covered most of our bills, while James, a salesman, moaned about stress, overtime, trafficeverything except the truth, which I found out too late.
Three weeks after our ruined anniversary, I came home early with a pounding headache. Just wanted paracetamol and bed. But when I reached our building in Chelsea, something felt off. The doorknob and lock, once brass, were now silver and brand new.
What the? I tried my key. It didnt fit.
Tried againnothing. Checked the flat numberdefinitely ours.
Then I saw the note stuck to the door, scrawled in Jamess hand: *This isnt your home anymore. Find somewhere else.*
The floor dropped beneath me.
Youre joking! I shouted.
I banged on the door, calling his name. Finally, it openedand there stood James, his mistress behind him, wrapped in my cashmere dressing gown, a gift from my mum.
Are you serious? My voice trembled with rage.
Emily, look He crossed his arms, smirking. Ive moved on. Me and Sophie are together now. We need this space. Go sleep on someones sofa.
Sophie. The work colleague hed mentioned for months. She stepped forward, hands on hips, and sneered:
Your stuffs in boxes in the garage. Take it and piss off.
I stood frozen, disbelieving. Then I turned on my heel and stormed to the car, fury boiling over. They thought they could toss me out like rubbish and get away with it? They were dead wrong.
I needed a plan. A good one.
I called my sister, Louise.
Emily? Bloody hell, whats happened? She yanked me inside the moment she saw my tear-streaked face.
I collapsed on the sofa and spilled everything.
What a bastard! she huffed when I finished. And that Sophie wearing YOUR dressing gown?
Mums gift, I choked. The cashmere one, remember?
Louise marched to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine.
Drink, she ordered. Then we figure out how to ruin them.
What can I do? I took a sip. The flats in his name. The mortgage was tied to his credit after mine took a hit during my masters.
Louise narrowed her eyes.
Who paid for everything else? she asked.
We both, but I paused, realising. I bought it all. The furniture, the appliances, last years bathroom renovation. Everything.
Exactly! She grinned wickedly. Whats James got left? An empty flat.
I opened my banking app and scrolled through statements.
Ive got every receipt. Always kept them organised.
Course you did, Miss Spreadsheet, Louise laughed. Queen of receipts!
For the first time that awful day, I felt control slipping back.
They think theyve won, dont they? I whispered.
She clinked her glass against mine.
Theyve no idea who theyre dealing with.
The next day, I called my solicitor friend, Felicity.
What he dids illegal, she said over coffee. He cant just change the locks and kick out his wife, even if the flats in his name. Youve got rights.
I dont want to go back, I said firmly. But I want whats mine.
Felicity smiled.
Then lets make a list.
We spent the morning noting everything Id bought: the sofa, the telly, the fridge, even the rugs. By lunch, I had a detailed inventory with receipts, dates, and costs.
Impressive, she nodded. With this, no one can dispute it.
Can I just take it all? I asked.
Legally, yes. But Id advise bringing a police escort to avoid trouble.
I remembered Jamess smug grin. Sophie in my gown. Their certainty theyd won.
No, I said slowly. Ive got a better idea.
That same day, I hired a removal firm. The owner, Rob, listened to my story and nodded.
Had a similar case last year, he said. Woman caught her husband cheating, took everything while he was out.
I need the same, I replied. Except I want them there when it happens.
I waited until Saturday.
On the arranged day, the movers arrived at noon, and I knocked on the door with a smile, ready to strip that flat bare of every single thing Id built with my own hands.
