My Husband and His Mistress Changed the Locks While I Was at Work Little Did They Know What Awaited Them
I came home after a long days work only to find my own husband had changed the locks. I couldnt believe it when my key no longer fit. There I stood, outside our flat in London, my heart in pieces. All that effort to save our marriage, and it crumbled in an instant. But what they didnt know was that I was about to teach them a lesson theyd never forget.
John, its nearly ten at night, my voice trembled when I called him the evening before. You promised youd be home by seven!
He tossed his keys onto the sideboard without even looking at me.
Work, Emily. What do you want me to tell my boss? That I have to rush home to my wife? He spoke irritably, as if I were a burden.
I swallowed my tears, staring at the table Id set for a simple birthday dinner. Two candles flickered beside the cake Id bought during my lunch break.
Yes, John. Exactly that. Just once, I crossed my arms, fighting back tears. Today is my birthday.
He finally glanced at the table. His expression shifted when he realised.
God, Emily, I forgot he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Seems so, I replied coldly, my throat tight.
Dont start, he rolled his eyes. I work for usyou know that.
I laughed bitterly.
For us? I asked. Youre barely home, John. When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Spoke like husband and wife?
Thats unfair, he frowned. Im building a career for our future.
What future? We live like strangers under the same roof! My voice cracked. I earn more than you, so dont give me that providing for the family nonsense.
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. We had no childrenthank God for that. I, a marketing director, covered most of our expenses while John, a salesman, complained endlesslyabout stress, overtime, traffic about everything except the truth, which I discovered far too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I came home early with a splitting headache. All I wanted was painkillers and bed. But when I reached our building in Islington, something felt off. The doorknob and lock, once brass, were now silver and brand new.
What on earth? I tried my key. It didnt fit.
Tried againnothing. Checked the flat numberdefinitely ours.
Then I saw the note taped to the door, handwritten by John: This isnt your home anymore. Find somewhere else.
The ground fell away beneath me.
What the hell?! I shouted.
I banged on the door, calling his name. Finally, it openedand there stood John, his mistress behind him, wrapped in my cashmere dressing gown, a gift from my mother.
Is this a joke? My voice shook with fury and hurt.
Emily, listen He crossed his arms, smirking. Ive moved on. Sarah and I are together now. We need this space. Go sleep at a friends.
Sarah. The so-called colleague hed mentioned for months. She stepped forward, hands on hips, and sneered:
Your things are boxed up in the garage. Take them and go.
I stood frozen in disbelief. Then I turned on my heel and stormed to the car, rage boiling inside me. Did they really think 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, Lucy.
Emily? My God, whats happened? She pulled me inside her flat the moment she saw my tear-streaked face.
I collapsed onto the sofa and poured out the story.
What a bloody wanker! she fumed when I finished. And that Sarah wearing YOUR dressing gown?
Mums gift, I sobbed. The cashmere one, remember?
Lucy marched to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine.
Drink, she ordered. Then well figure out how to ruin them.
What can I do? I took a sip. The flats in his name. The mortgage was in his credit because mine was still recovering from my masters.
Lucy narrowed her eyes.
And who paid for everything else? she asked.
We both, but I stopped, realising. I bought it all. The furniture, the appliances, the bathroom renovation last year. Everything.
Exactly! She grinned wickedly. Whats John got left? An empty flat.
I opened my banking app and scanned the statements.
Ive kept every receipt. Always organised everything.
Of course you have, Miss Spreadsheet, Lucy laughed. Queen of organisation!
For the first time that awful day, I felt control slipping back into my hands.
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 lawyer friend, Claire.
What he did is illegal, she said over coffee. He cant just change the locks and kick out his wife, even if the place is in his name. Youve got a right to live there.
I dont want to go back, I said firmly. But Im taking whats mine.
Claire smiled.
Then lets make a list.
We spent the morning cataloguing everything Id bought: the sofa, the telly, the fridge, even the rugs. By lunch, I had a detailed recordreceipts, dates, and amounts.
Impressive, she approved. With this proof, no one can argue.
Can I just take it all? I asked.
Legally, yes. But Id recommend bringing a police officer to avoid trouble.
I remembered Johns smug grin. Sarah in my dressing gown. Their certainty theyd won.
No, I said slowly. Ive got a better idea.
That same day, I hired a removal company. The owner, Rob, listened to my story and nodded.
Had a similar case once, 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. At noon, the removal team arrived. I knocked on the door with a smile, ready to reclaim every piece of the home Id built with my own hands.
