**Diary Entry – January 12th**
I stood there, key in hand, staring at the unfamiliar lock on our front door in Manchester. My heart sank like a stone. The marriage I’d fought so hard to save had crumbled in an instant. But my cheating husband and his mistress had no idea what was coming—a lesson they’d never forget.
“Thomas, it’s nearly ten,” I’d said the night before, voice trembling. “You promised you’d be home by seven!”
He tossed his keys onto the side table without so much as glancing at me.
“Work, Emily. What was I supposed to do, tell my boss I had to rush home to my wife?” His tone dripped with irritation, like I was some burden.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring at the table I’d set for a quiet birthday dinner. Two candles flickered beside the cake I’d picked up on my lunch break.
“Yes, Thomas. That’s exactly what you could’ve done. Just once,” I crossed my arms, fighting back tears. “It’s my birthday.”
He finally looked at the table. His face twisted with realisation.
“Bloody hell, Emily, I forgot…” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Obviously,” I said coldly, feeling my chest tighten.
“Don’t start,” he waved me off. “I’m doing this for us, you know.”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“For us? When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Just talked, like a married couple should?”
“That’s not fair,” he scowled. “I’m building a career so we’ve got a future.”
“What future? We’re strangers under the same roof! I earn more than you, so don’t pretend this is about providing.”
His face hardened.
“Right, throw that in my face,” he sneered. “How am I supposed to keep up with my successful wife?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Enough, Emily. I’m going to bed.” He walked off, leaving me alone with a cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, whispering that things would get better. He was my husband. I loved him. All couples go through rough patches, don’t they?
How wrong I was to forgive him so easily.
Three years married, but the last one had been a slow, painful unravelling. No children—thank God, looking back. My job as marketing director covered most of our bills, while Thomas, a sales manager, moaned about stress, long hours, the commute… everything but the truth I’d discover too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I came home early with a splitting headache—just wanting painkillers and bed. But as I pulled up to our house on the outskirts of Manchester, something felt off. The door handle and lock, once brass, now gleamed silver.
“What the…” I muttered, jiggling my key. It didn’t fit.
I checked the address—yes, this was home. Then I spotted the note taped to the door in Thomas’s handwriting: *This isn’t your home anymore. Find somewhere else.*
The world tilted. My blood ran cold.
“You’ve got to be joking!” I banged on the door, shouting his name. When it finally opened, Thomas stood there, smug, while behind him, a woman—*that* colleague he’d insisted was “just a friend”—wore my cashmere dressing gown, a gift from Mum.
“Seriously?” My voice shook with rage.
“Emily, listen,” he crossed his arms, smirking. “I’ve moved on. Annie and I are together now. We need this place. Sort yourself out.”
Annie stepped forward, hands on hips.
“Your stuff’s in boxes in the garage. Take it and leave.”
I stared, numb, then turned and walked to my car, fury simmering. They thought they could toss me out like rubbish and get away with it? Oh no. I had a plan—a brutal, calculated one.
I knew exactly who to call.
“Emily? Christ, what’s happened?” My sister Lucy pulled me into her flat, taking in my tear-streaked face.
I collapsed onto her sofa, the story spilling out between sobs.
“That bastard!” Lucy hissed when I finished. “And Annie wore your dressing gown?”
“Mum’s gift. The cashmere one from last birthday.”
Lucy marched to the kitchen, returning with two glasses of wine.
“Drink. Then we’ll figure out how to ruin them.”
“What can I do? The house is in Thomas’s name. The mortgage was his—my credit was still recovering after my master’s.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who paid for everything else?”
“We both, but…” I trailed off, realising. “I bought it all. The sofa, the telly, the new bathroom last year. All me.”
“Exactly!” Lucy grinned. “What’s Thomas got without your things?”
I scrolled through my banking app, receipts flashing by.
“I’ve got proof. Every bill, every purchase.”
“Of course you do, Miss Organised,” Lucy laughed.
For the first time that day, I felt control return.
“They think they’ve won, don’t they?” I whispered.
Lucy clinked her glass against mine. “They’ve no idea who they’re dealing with.”
The next morning, I phoned my friend Sarah, a solicitor.
“What he did is illegal,” she said over coffee. “Even if the house is his, he can’t lock you out. You’ve got rights.”
“I don’t want to go back. But I want what’s mine.”
Sarah smiled. “Then let’s make a list.”
By noon, we’d catalogued everything—the fridge, the telly, even the carpets. All backed by receipts.
“With this, no one’s arguing it’s not yours,” Sarah said.
“So I can just take it?”
“Legally, yes. But bring a cop to avoid trespassing claims.”
I pictured Thomas’s smug face, Annie in my dressing gown. Their arrogance.
“No,” I said slowly. “I’ve got a better idea.”
That afternoon, I rang a removals firm. The owner, Dave, listened, then nodded.
“Had a similar case last year. Wife caught her husband cheating—wanted her things out while he was at work.”
“I need the same. But I want them there when it happens.”
I waited until Saturday—knowing they’d be home—then had Dave’s team arrive at noon.
When the lorries pulled up, I knocked. Thomas answered, eyes widening.
“Hello, love,” I smiled sweetly. “I’ve come for my things.”
Before he could react, movers swarmed in, stripping the house bare.
Fridge? Unplugged, food dumped in a box.
Dishwasher? Yanked mid-cycle, water sloshing on the floor.
Their bed? Dismantled and hauled out.
My chest of drawers, my telly, my favourite sofa? Packed and gone.
Best part? Annie was using my hairdryer. I snatched it from her.
“Sorry, love. Mum’s gift. From when Thomas was still my husband.”
“You can’t take everything!” Thomas yelled, chasing the movers. “This is insane!”
I pulled out my folder of receipts.
“Actually, I can. Because unlike you, I pay for what I own.”
He froze, speechless.
“Oh, and changing the locks while I still legally live here? That’s illegal. I could drag you through court. But honestly?” I glanced at the empty house, their stunned faces. “This is so much sweeter.”
Annie shrieked something, but I was already leaving. The lorries rumbled off as I slid into my car.
In the rear-view mirror, I saw them standing in the doorway—crushed, humiliated, powerless.
Sometimes I wonder if I went too far. Then I remember the note on the door. Their arrogance. My lonely birthday. And I know—I did exactly what I had to.
