**Thursday, 15th June**
I stood there, key in hand, staring at my own front door in Manchester—the lock changed without a word. Just like that, my marriage, the one I’d fought so hard to mend, collapsed around me. But my cheating husband and his mistress had no idea what was coming. A lesson they’d never forget.
“Thomas, it’s almost ten,” my voice quivered when I rang him the night before. “You promised you’d be home by seven!”
He tossed his keys onto the side table without so much as a glance.
“Work, Emily. What d’you want me to do, tell my boss I’ve got to run home to the missus?” His tone dripped with irritation, as though I were some chore.
I swallowed the hurt, staring at the table I’d set—two flickering candles beside the cake I’d bought on my lunch break.
“Yes, Thomas. That’s exactly what you could’ve done. Just once,” I crossed my arms, fighting the burn in my throat. “It’s my birthday.”
Finally, his gaze landed on the table. His face twisted.
“Bloody hell, Emily. I forgot—”
“Obviously,” I said flatly.
“Don’t start,” he waved me off. “I’m doing this for us. You know that.”
I laughed, bitter. “For us? You’re barely here. When was the last time we had dinner? Watched a film? Just *talked* like husband and wife?”
“That’s not fair,” he scowled. “I’m building a future for us.”
“What future? We’re strangers under the same roof!” My voice cracked. “I earn more than you—spare me the ‘providing’ nonsense.”
His face hardened.
“Right. Throw that in my face. How’m I supposed to keep up with my high-flying wife?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Enough, Emily. I’m going to bed.” He walked off, leaving me with cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, whispering that it’d get better. He was my husband. I loved him. Every marriage has rough patches, doesn’t it?
I was wrong. So bloody wrong.
We’d been married three years, but the last one had been slow, quiet agony. No kids—thank God. My marketing director salary carried us, while Thomas, a sales manager, whinged about stress, long hours, commutes… everything 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 paracetamol and bed. But as I pulled up to our Manchester semi, something was off. The door handle and lock, once brass, were now steel—shiny and new.
I tried my key. It didn’t fit.
Then I saw the note taped to the door. His handwriting slit through me: *”This isn’t your home anymore. Find somewhere else.”*
The pavement tilted.
“What the hell?!”
I hammered on the door, screaming his name. When it swung open, there he stood—and behind him, a woman in my cashmere dressing gown. A gift from Mum.
“You’re joking,” I hissed.
“Emily, listen—” He smirked, arms crossed. “I’ve moved on. Me and Sophie are together now. We need this place. Go find a mate to crash with.”
*Sophie.* The “just a colleague” he’d gone on about for months. She stepped forward, hands on hips.
“Your stuff’s in boxes in the garage. Take it and piss off.”
I turned on my heel and walked to the car, fury solidifying into resolve. They thought they could toss me out like rubbish and walk away clean? No. I needed a plan. A sharp, merciless one.
I knew exactly who to call.
“Emily? Christ, what’s happened?” My sister Charlotte yanked me into her flat, took one look at my face, and shoved a glass of wine into my hand.
By the time I finished, her grip on her own glass had turned her knuckles white.
“That absolute *bastard*,” she hissed. “And that Sophie cow had the nerve to wear your robe?”
“Mum’s Christmas gift,” I muttered, wiping my nose.
Charlotte drained her wine. Then she grinned—the kind that meant trouble.
“Right. Let’s ruin them.”
We stayed up listing everything I’d bought: the sofa, the telly, the bloody fridge. By dawn, I had receipts, dates, bank statements—everything.
“You’re a machine,” Charlotte laughed.
The next morning, I met my solicitor mate, Rebecca.
“Legally, you can take it all,” she said over coffee. “But bring a bobby to avoid trespassing claims.”
I pictured Thomas’ smug face. Sophie in my robe. Their arrogance.
“No,” I said slowly. “I’ve got a better idea.”
I rang a removal firm. The owner, Dave, listened, then snorted.
“Had a bloke last month—same thing. Wife caught him cheating, wanted her stuff back while he was out.”
“I want them *there*,” I said.
I waited till Saturday—lazy lie-in day. At noon, two lorries rolled up.
Thomas answered the door in joggers, mouth falling open as removal men swarmed past him.
“Hello, darling,” I chirped. “Just here for my things.”
Chaos. The fridge unplugged, groceries dumped in a box. The dishwasher ripped mid-cycle, suds gushing everywhere. *Our* bed—now *theirs*—dismantled. My telly, my sideboard, my bloody kettle—gone.
Best part? Sophie was drying her hair with *my* Dyson. I yanked it from her.
“Sorry, love. Birthday gift. From when Thomas was still my husband.”
“You can’t take *everything*!” Thomas roared, chasing a bloke carrying the telly.
I pulled out my folder. “Actually, I can. Unlike you, I pay for my things.”
He gaped.
“Oh, and changing locks while I’m still a legal resident? Illegal. I could drag you through court. But,” I smiled sweetly, “seeing you two in this empty shell? Priceless.”
Sophie shrieked something. I left.
Through the rearview mirror, I watched them standing in the doorway—stripped, small, *broken*.
Sometimes I wonder if I went too far. Then I remember the note. The smirk. My cold birthday cake.
No. I gave exactly what they deserved.
**Lesson learned:** Cross a woman with receipts, and you’ll lose more than just the telly.
