Lucy came home to find her belongings stuffed into bin bags.
“No, you need to explain this. Why? Why do we need this monstrosity in the lounge? The old sofa was perfectly fine!”
She stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, glaring at the enormous cream-coloured leather behemoth that had taken over their once cosy space. It looked cold, alien, and completely out of place in their modest terraced house in Croydon.
“Perfectly fine?” Mark scoffed, not looking up from his phone. “Lucy, it was fifteen years old. The springs were poking through, the fabric was threadbare. You complained just last week that it was impossible to sleep on when we had guests!”
“I complained that it needed reupholstering! Not replacing with this this ridiculous thing that cost a fortune! We were supposed to be saving to renovate the bathroom!”
“I decided the lounge was more important. We cant keep living like its the 1980s. Look at itgenuine leather, Italian design.”
“Italian? Mark, we live in a semi-detached in Croydon, not a bloody villa in Tuscany! And where did you even get the money? You said your bonus was cut this year.”
He finally looked up at her. His expression was distant, cold, and it sent a shiver down her spine. She hadnt seen him like this in years.
“I found it,” he said flatly. “Dont worry, I didnt go into debt. Consider it a gift to our family.”
“A gift nobody asked for! You just dropped this on melike always these days!”
She waved a hand, fighting back the lump in her throat, and marched into the bedroom. She wanted to slam the door but settled for shutting it firmly. The energy for a row just wasnt there. Their marriage had been walking on eggshells for monthsMark distant, always on his phone, vanishing for “work meetings,” answering her in monosyllables. Shed chalked it up to a midlife crisis, stress, work pressure. Told herself it would pass.
Lucy sat on the edge of their bed, taking in the familiar roomthe dressing table Mark had built for her twenty years ago, the framed cross-stitch shed made, the old armchair where she liked to read. She sucked in a deep breath. Fine. A sofa. Theyd survive. Maybe he meant well.
She got up to change, opened the wardrobeand froze. The right side, where her dresses and blouses usually hung, was empty. Just a few lonely hangers remained. Her heart stuttered, then hammered wildly. She yanked open the drawersempty. The next one, full of jumpers and T-shirtsempty.
A cold, sickening dread crawled up her throat. She turned, scanning the roomthen saw them. Three black bin bags, stuffed full and knotted shut, piled near the balcony door. Hands shaking, she untied one. On top was her favourite blue dress, the one shed worn to her sisters anniversary. She pulled it out, crumpled, smelling of mothballs and plastic. Beneath it, her dressing gown, the jumper her mother had knitted
The bedroom door opened. Mark stood there, phone gone, face blank.
“What is this?” Lucy whispered, barely recognising her own voice.
“Your things,” he said tonelessly.
“I can see that. Why are they in bin bags? Some sort of spring cleaning?”
He smirked, but it was ugly. “In a way, yes. I made it easier for you to pack.”
“Pack? For what? Are we going somewhere?”
“You are,” he corrected. “Or rather, leaving. I want you out. Today.”
The world tilted. She gripped the dresser to stay upright. His words, so casual, didnt make sense. This had to be some sick joke.
“What? Mark, are you drunk?”
“Stone-cold sober. And Ive never been more serious. Our marriage is over. Ive met someone else. I want a new life. Without you.”
Someone else. The words hit like a slap. She stared at himthe man shed spent twenty-five years with, raised a son with, shared every high and lowand didnt recognise him. A stranger stood there. Cold. Cruel.
“Someone else,” she echoed. “How? When?”
“Doesnt matter now. It just happened. I love her. Shes moving in tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. So thats what the new sofa was for. Her replacement. Her lifepacked into bin bags for the tip.
“Twenty-five years,” she breathed. “Youre just throwing away twenty-five years?”
“Dont be dramatic. They were decent years, but theyre done. People change. Feelings fade. Mine have. I dont love you anymore.”
Each word cracked something inside her. Images flashedtheir wedding, Mark holding their newborn son Alfie, wallpapering this flat together, laughing. Where had it all gone?
“And me? Where am I supposed to go?” Her voice broke.
“Youve got Alfie. Stay with him for now. The house is mineyou know it was my parents. So no claim there. Ill file for divorce soon. No alimony, youre employable. So”
He shrugged, like it was just life being life. This practicality, this planningit was worse than anger. Hed boxed up her existence like clutter.
“Get out,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Get out,” she repeated, pointing at the door. “Let me pack.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. Call a cab for your things. Ive left cash on the hall table.”
He shut the door behind him. Lucy sank to the floor amid her scattered clothes. No tears camejust a hollow, howling void where her life had been.
She called Alfie. He answered on the first ring.
“Mum? You okay? You sound weird.”
“Alf” She swallowed the lump. “Can I stay with you? Just for a bit”
“Of course! Mum, whats happened? Did Dad do something?”
“Hes throwing me out,” she blurted, and then the dam broke. She sobbed into the phone, babbling about the sofa, the bin bags, the other woman.
“Right, breathe,” Alfie said, voice steady. “Call a cab, come straight here. Dont talk to him. Just grab your stuff and go. Ill be waiting.”
Hanging up, she felt the tiniest relief. She wasnt alone. She had Alfie.
Mark was on the new sofa, watching telly, when she dragged the bin bags past. He didnt look up. The moneya few crisp twentiesstill sat on the hall table. She left it there. Pride was all she had left.
Alfies one-bed flat in Wembley felt like a sanctuary. He took the bags, hugged her tight. “Its okay, Mum. Youre home.”
Over tea, he unpacked her things, making space in his wardrobe. At twenty-four, with his own job and girlfriend, he shouldnt have had tobut he didnt complain.
“Ill be in your way”
“Dont start,” he cut in. “Youre my mum. This is your home now.”
She nodded, sipping tea, hands still shaking. “I dont understand we were fine. We argued, but who doesnt? Then thisout of nowhere.”
“It wasnt nowhere, Mum,” Alfie sighed. “You just didnt want to see it. Hes been off for months. Always on his phone, work trips every weekend. I tried telling you”
She remembered. Alfie had warned her, but shed brushed it off. The truth had been too terrifying.
“Who is she?”
“Dunno. Some colleague, I think. Younger, obviously.”
Lucy covered her face. The image burnedsome sparkling young thing, effortlessly dismantling her life while she, at forty-nine, with her tired eyes and old dressing gown, was just clutter.
The first days were the worst. She barely slept, jumping at every noise, waiting for Mark to call and say it was all a mistake. He didnt.
Alfie nudged her back to lifebringing her favourite biscuits, putting on old comedies. “Mum, you need to do something. Lets sort your CV. You were an accountant.”
“Alfie, that was twenty years ago! I dont know the software, the laws”
“Youll learn. Theres refresher courses. Start as an assistant. Just take the first step.”
He was right. Self-pity was a dead end.
A week later, her best friend Emma stormed inAlfie mustve called her.
“Right, no more moping. Were making a plan.”
Emma dragged her to a solicitor the next day. The house was Marks, but the car and their holiday cottage? Joint assets.
“Dont let him bully you,” the solicitor said. “Youre entitled to half.”
Walking out, Lucy felt taller. She wasnt powerless.
She signed up for accounting courses, then found a jobentry-level, in a cramped office with three women her age. The pay was modest, but it was hers.
Alfie helped her buy a tiny flatold building, small kitchen, view of a chestnut tree. Sitting there with tea and cake on moving-in day, she felt something like happiness.
“New start,” Alfie said.
She smiled. “Thanks to you.”
“Youd have got here anyway.”
Months later, she ran into Mark near her flat. He looked roughthinner, shadows under his eyes.
“Lucy I wanted to talk. Me and Jessicaits over. She said I was too old. Too boring.”
She studied himno gloating, just pity. A man whod gambled and lost.
“Im sorry.”
“I was an idiot,” he muttered. “Can I come up? Just for a cuppa?”
She remembered the bin bags. The coldness. The humiliation.
“No, Mark. That lifes gone. Ive moved on.”
She walked past him, up to her flat, and shut the door. She didnt know what came nextlove, happiness, whatever. But one thing was certain: no one would ever pack her life into bin bags again.
She was home.
