“Can my new wife and I stay at the cottage?” my ex asked. I said yesthen called the police and filed a breaking-and-entering report.
“Found out, did you?” The voice on the phone was sickeningly familiar. Soft, wheedling, the same one that once swore eternal love.
I stayed silent, tracing frost patterns on the window. A call from my former husband, David, after two years of near-silence, never meant anything good. It was always the prelude to a request.
“Emily, dont ignore me. I need a favour.”
“Im listening,” I replied flatly, my voice brittle as a twig.
He hesitated, testing the watershis usual tactic before making his move.
“I know it sounds odd but Louise and I are in a tight spot. Weve moved out of our flat, cant find a new one.”
I let him talk, each word a pebble dropped into the still lake of my composure.
“Could you let us stay at the cottage? Just a couple of months, till we sort things out. Well be quietyou wont even know were there.”
*”Can my new wife and I stay at the cottage?”* Casual, as if hed asked me to pass the salt.
As if none of it had happenedthe affairs, the lies, the way he walked out, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
A memory flashedtwenty years ago, building that cottage. Young, sun-browned David, hammer in hand, grinning:
“This is our fortress, Em! No matter what, well always have this place. Our safe haven.”
How poisonous those words were now. *Our* safe haven. Where hed brought *her*. And now wanted to make her at home.
“David, have you lost your mind?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“Emily, please. Weve nowhere else. You know Louise is pregnant. We cant sleep on the streets.”
Hed aimed for the weakest spot. Children. The one thing we never had. And now, for them, it came effortlessly.
I closed my eyes. Two beasts warred inside meone wanted to scream, to slam the phone down and forget him forever. But the other the other whispered: *This is your chance. Not to forgive. To balance the scales.*
“We vowed to support each other, no matter what,” he pressed, his voice almost pleading. Playing on duty, on the *good girl* Id been for him all those years.
Another memoryour wedding. Young and hopeful, his gaze earnest: *”Ill never betray you.”* Fifteen years later, packing his bags: *”Sorry. Feelings change.”*
Betrayed. Gone. Now begging for help.
A cold, crystalline clarity settled over me. The plan formed instantly. Ruthless. Perfect.
“Fine,” I said evenly, surprising myself with my own calm. “You can stay.”
Relief sighed through the line. He babbled thanks, something about always knowing Id help. I stopped listening.
“The keys where it always is. Under the stone by the porch.”
“Thank you, Em! Youve saved us!”
I hung up. The trap was set. Now, to wait for the beast to let its guard down.
Two days passed. I lived on edge, flinching at every phone buzz. I *knew* hed call againneeding reassurance I was still hooked.
The call came Saturday morning.
“Hi! Were all settled in,” David chirped, his tone no longer pleading but proprietorial.
“Place needs workcobwebs, overgrown garden. But Louise and I will sort it.”
My fingers whitened on the countertop. *”Well sort it.”* In *my* home.
“I never asked you to *sort* anything,” I said sharply. “I allowed you to stay.”
“Em, come on. Were making improvements. Louise says the airs perfect for the baby. Shes already picked a spot for a flower bed. Right under the bedroom window.”
*Our* bedroom. Where the wallpaper still bore scratches from our old cat.
“Dont touch my roses,” was all I said.
“Who wants thorns anyway?” he scoffed. “Louise prefers peonies. Listen, theres more. The attics full of your junkboxes, old clothes. Weve nowhere to store it. Can we move it to the shed?”
A flashbackour first flat. David “upgraded” the bathroom, tearing out tiles Mum and I spent weeks choosing. *”Theyre dated, Em. Ill make it modern.”* The result was crooked, cheap, and drained our savings. His initiatives always cost me too much.
“Leave my things alone, David.”
“Why cling to rubbish?” he snapped. “We need space! Cant you be reasonable? Louise is stressedits bad for the baby!”
A whisper, then his new wifes saccharine voice: *”David, dont argue. Emily, love, we mean no harm. Just need space for the crib, the pram”*
A performance. Him pressuring, her soothing. Expecting me to melt and surrender.
“I said no. And plant nothing in *my* garden. Live there and be grateful.”
“*Grateful*?” he exploded. “I wasted fifteen years on you! And you begrudge us a few boxes? FineIm changing the shed lock. Youll get your junk when we leave.”
He hung up.
Through the window, grey cityscape blurred. He wasnt just living in my homehe was *claiming* it. Erasing me. The new lock wasnt just audacityit was war.
Very well. War hed get.
I waited a week. Worked, met friends, maintained normality. Beneath it, my plan hardened.
Next Saturday, I drove to the cottage unannounced. Parked round the bend, approached like a thief.
First sightmy rose bushes, torn up by the roots. The ones Mum planted. They lay by the fence like corpses.
In their placefresh soil, pale shoots. Peonies.
Something inside me snapped. This wasnt just trespass. It was desecration.
I circled the house. New wicker furniture on the patio. Frilly curtains in the windows. They were settling in. Putting down roots.
The shed door stood ajarthe one where hed changed the lock. Inside, my boxes were ripped open, belongings strewn across the filthy floor. Mums letters, once tied with ribbon, now lay in a puddle. My journals, pages torn.
And on topmy wedding dress. Once white, now soiled with grease and dirt. Beside it, an empty beer bottle.
They werent just clearing space. They were *enjoying* destroying what mattered to me. Trampling my past.
Enough.
The *good girl Emily*, who avoided conflict and pleased everyone, died in that shed, staring at her defiled dress. In her place rose something else. Calm. Ice. And utterly merciless.
I didnt shout. Didnt storm in. Just turned, walked to the car, and drove off.
Hands steady on the wheel, mind eerily clear.
First stopa hardware store. The heaviest padlock and chain I could find.
By seven the next morning, I stood at the garden gate. Wrapped it in chain. Secured the lock.
Then waited in the car, parked to watch.
At ten, David stepped outside, stretched, ambled toward the gate. Tugged once, twicethen froze, gaping at the chain.
His relaxation vanished. He yanked harder, as if sheer force would help.
Louise scurried out. Her shriek pierced through my closed windows.
My phone rang.
“What the hell are you doing?” David roared. “Youve locked us in!”
“Securing my property,” I replied, icy. “Since locks mean nothing to youas proved by the shed.”
“What shed? Youre insane! Louise is pregnantwhat if she needs an ambulance? Open this now!”
“An ambulance? Of course. Ill call the police firstreport trespass, destruction, theft. Theyll have tools to open the gate.”
Silence. Louises sobs faint in the background.
“Trespass? *You* let us in!”
“I allowed temporary shelter. You acted like owners. Dug up my roses, turned the shed into a dump, ruined whats mine. You crossed the line, David.”
“Who cares about old junk?” he spat. “Youd jail us over *rubbish*?”
“Its not rubbish. Its my past. What you betrayed, then tried to destroy.”
I hung up, dialled 999. Calmly reported intruders damaging my property, refusing to leave.
The officers arrived swiftly. I met them with the deed and land registry in hand.
David and Louise shouted over the fence as the police listened. I handed them the documents.
“They claim you permitted them to stay,” one
