Oh man, let me tell you what went down with my ex-husband and his little mistress—they changed the locks while I was at work, but they had no idea what was coming their way.
So there I was, standing outside my own house in Manchester, key in hand, and it wouldn’t turn in this brand-new lock. My heart just dropped. In that one moment, my marriage—the one I’d been fighting to save—just shattered. But my cheating husband and his new squeeze had *no clue* the reckoning I had planned for them.
“Tom, it’s almost ten,” I’d said the night before, my voice shaking as I called him. “You *promised* you’d be home by seven!”
He just tossed his keys on the side table without even looking at me.
“Work, Lara. What am I supposed to do, tell my boss I need to run home to my wife?” His tone was pure irritation, like I was some kind of chore.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring at the little birthday dinner I’d set up. Two candles flickered next to a cake I’d picked up on my lunch break.
“Yeah, Tom. That’s exactly what you *could* have done. Just once,” I folded my arms, fighting back tears. “It’s my birthday.”
He finally *looked* at the table. His face twisted with realisation.
“Bloody hell, Lara, I forgot—” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Obviously,” I said flatly, my chest tightening.
“Don’t make this a thing,” he scoffed. “I’m working for *us*, you know that.”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“For *us*?” I repeated. “You’re barely even home anymore, Tom. When was the last time we had dinner? Watched a film? Just *talked* like husband and wife?”
“That’s not fair,” he frowned. “I’m building a career so we can have a future.”
“What future? We’re living like strangers under the same roof!” My voice cracked. “*I* make more than you, so don’t give me that ‘providing for the family’ nonsense.”
His face went stony.
“Oh, *there* it is,” he sneered. “How am I ever supposed to keep up with my *high-flying* wife?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Enough, Lara. I’m going to bed,” he cut me off, leaving me there with a cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, whispering to myself that it would get better. He was my husband. I loved him. All marriages have rough patches, right? That’s what everyone says.
God, was I wrong.
Tom and I had been married three years, but the last year was just a slow, painful unraveling. No kids—thank heavens for *that*, in hindsight. My job as a marketing director covered most of our bills, while Tom, a sales manager, spent more time complaining about stress, long hours, his commute… *anything* but the truth I’d find out 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 pulled up to our house on the outskirts of Manchester, something felt *off*. The door handle and lock, once brass, were now shiny silver.
“What the…” I muttered, trying my key. It didn’t fit.
I tried again. Nothing. Checked the address—definitely my house.
Then I spotted the note taped to the door. Tom’s handwriting cut right through me: *”This isn’t your home anymore. Find somewhere else.”*
My vision swam. I could *feel* the blood draining from my face.
“What the *hell*?!”
I hammered on the door, screaming his name. Finally, it swung open—Tom standing there, smirking, and behind him, *her*—wrapped in my cashmere dressing gown, the one Mum had given me.
“Are you *serious*?” My voice shook with rage.
“Lara, listen,” Tom crossed his arms, smug. “I’ve moved on. Me and *Anna* are together now. We need this place. Go stay with a friend or something.”
*Anna.* The “just a colleague” he’d been talking about for months. She stepped forward, hands on hips, and sneered,
“Your stuff’s in boxes in the garage. Take it and leave.”
I just stared at them, numb. Then I turned on my heel and stormed back to my car, my blood boiling. They thought they could toss me aside like rubbish and get away with it? Oh, *hell* no. I wasn’t done.
I knew exactly who to call.
“Lara? Oh my God, what’s happened?” My sister *Katie* took one look at my tear-streaked face and yanked me inside.
I collapsed onto her sofa, and the whole story poured out.
“That *absolute bastard*,” Katie hissed when I finished. “And that *Anna* was wearing your dressing gown?”
“Mum’s present,” I sniffed. “The cashmere one from last Christmas.”
Katie marched to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine.
“Drink,” she ordered. “Then we figure out how to ruin them.”
“What can I even *do*?” I took a sip. “The house is in Tom’s name. The mortgage was on his credit—mine was still rebuilding after my Master’s.”
Katie narrowed her eyes.
“Who paid for *everything else*?”
“Both of us, but—” I stopped, realisation hitting. “*I* bought all of it. The furniture, the TV, the bloody bathroom renovation last year. *All* me.”
“*Exactly*,” Katie grinned like a predator. “What’s Tom got without you? An empty shell.”
I grabbed my phone, pulled up my banking app, and scrolled through months of receipts.
“I’ve got *every* invoice. I *always* keep records.”
“Of *course* you do, Miss Spreadsheet,” Katie laughed. “Queen of organisation!”
For the first time that day, I felt the tiniest spark of control.
“They think they’ve won, don’t they?” I whispered.
Katie clinked her glass against mine.
“They’ve got *no* idea who they’re dealing with.”
Next morning, I called my lawyer mate, *Emily*.
“What he did was *illegal*,” she said over coffee. “You can’t just change locks and kick a spouse out, even if the house isn’t in your name. You’ve got rights.”
“I don’t *want* to go back,” I said firmly. “But I *do* want what’s mine.”
Emily grinned.
“Then let’s make a list.”
We spent the morning cataloguing *everything* I’d bought for that house—sofas, telly, fridge, even the bloody *rugs*. By lunch, I had a detailed spreadsheet: receipts, dates, amounts.
“Impressive,” Emily nodded. “No one’s arguing with *this* paper trail.”
“So I can just *take* it?”
“Legally, *yes*. But I’d bring police escort—avoid trespassing claims.”
I pictured Tom’s smug face. Anna in *my* gown. Their *confidence* that they’d outsmarted me.
“No,” I said slowly. “I’ve got a *better* idea.”
That afternoon, I called a removals company. The owner, *Mark*, listened to my story and nodded.
“Had a similar case last year,” he said. “Wife caught her husband cheating, wanted her stuff out while he was at work.”
“I want the same,” I said. “*Except* I want them *home* when it happens.”
I waited till Saturday—knew they’d be in. Told Mark to bring his crew by noon.
When the trucks rolled up, I knocked. Tom answered, face falling.
“Hi, darling,” I beamed. “I’m here for my things.”
Before he could react, the movers *flooded* in and started stripping the place.
Fridge? Unplugged, food dumped in a box.
Dishwasher? Yanked mid-cycle, water sloshing everywhere.
The *bed* they’d been sleeping in? Dismantled.
My dresser, my telly, my *favourite* sofa? Gone.
And the *best* part? Anna was drying her hair with *my* Dyson. I snatched it from her and smirked:
“Sorry, love. *Mum’s* present. You know—back when Tom was still my *husband*.”
“You can’t take *everything*!” Tom shrieked, chasing the movers. “They’re gutting the *whole house*! What’s wrong with you?!”
I pulled out my folder of receipts.
“Actually, I *can*. Because unlike you, I *pay* for my things.”
He froze, speechless.
“Oh, and—” I added, “*changing”—locking me out while I was still legally living there? Criminal offence, love—but honestly, watching you two standing there in your empty little love nest is *way* more satisfying than court.”
