Ten Days Later: An Empty Home
When Eleanor returned from work to their tiny flat in Manchester, she froze in the doorway. Something was off. She walked through the rooms, and her heart clenched—his things were gone. The summer clothes, his razor, his toothbrush. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, she felt the sting of tears. He’d actually done it. Left her without a word.
Just a few months ago, she and Oliver had been dreaming about a holiday. He’d insisted on a fancy resort abroad, and Eleanor, swept up in the excitement, had agreed. She could already picture herself on a sun-soaked beach, strolling barefoot on golden sand to the sound of crashing waves. They’d decided each would pay for their own ticket—their finances had always been separate. She’d gotten used to it, though sometimes it stung.
But then she’d spent all her savings on a medical procedure. Oliver knew this, yet still asked where she’d get the money for the trip. His words cut like a knife. Swallowing her pride, she asked if he could lend her the rest, promising to pay him back after her summer bonus. He’d just shrugged and muttered something vague, already buried in his laptop.
Oliver had one hard rule: never lend money to anyone. But was she really just *anyone*? Weren’t they supposed to be a team? In normal families, things like this didn’t even come up—but with them? There’d been times she’d had to *ask* him for grocery money. Humiliating, but she’d kept hoping he’d change.
She tried talking to him, pleading for help, but Oliver just shut down. He’d say the holiday was still on, but his words were hollow. Eleanor waited, making plans—until his leave started. And then he left. Alone. Without her.
When she realised he’d sneaked off to that beach resort without so much as a goodbye, her world collapsed. It wasn’t just a trip—it was betrayal. He’d chosen his comfort over their marriage. The hurt choked her as she sat in that stifling flat, every corner a reminder of him. She called her mum, breathless with sobs, and spilled everything.
*“How could he, love?”* Her mother’s voice shook with anger. *“Your dad and I always shared everything. Come stay with me, sweetheart. There’s no point moping in that empty place.”*
Eleanor agreed. She couldn’t stay surrounded by his ghost. Packing her things, she left for her mum’s house in the countryside. There, wrapped in familiar comfort, she felt warmth for the first time in ages. A few days later, her brother James and his wife announced a seaside trip. Her sister-in-law, noticing her sadness, nudged her.
*“Ellie, come with us! Enough sulking!”*
The kindness in those words—so simple, so genuine—hit her hard. Suddenly, Oliver felt like a stranger. He’d never valued her, never sacrificed a thing. He lived for himself, while she’d been fooling herself, believing in *us*.
By the sea, Eleanor finally breathed freely again. She laughed with her nieces, walked barefoot along the shore, and slowly, the ache in her chest faded. There was no going back. Oliver had shown his true colours, and she refused to be his shadow. Back at her mum’s, she made her choice. Returning to the flat, she packed the last of her things and left a note on the kitchen table:
*“I’m gone. Took my things. Expect divorce papers. Hope the holiday was worth it.”*
Ten days later, Oliver arrived back in Manchester. He fumbled at the door—his keys, of course, were missing. A sympathetic neighbour lent him a spare. Stepping inside, he was met with silence. Eleanor wasn’t there. Just that note, each word a punch to the gut.
He sank into a chair, the paper trembling in his hands. He’d messed up. Badly. The woman he’d taken for granted had walked away, leaving behind only emptiness. She’d chosen herself—and he knew, deep down, she wasn’t coming back.
