**Diary Entry 21st May**
“Who *are* you?”
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I stood frozen in the doorway of my own flat, my fingers gripping the edge of the doorframe. A strangera woman in her early thirties with a messy ponytailstared back at me, bewildered. Behind her, two children, a boy and a girl, peeked around her legs, wide-eyed.
The hall was cluttered with unfamiliar shoes, coats I didnt recognise hung on the rack, and the unmistakable scent of stew drifted from the kitchen.
“And who are *you*?” The woman frowned, pulling the younger child closer. “We live here. Gregory let us in. He said the owner wouldnt mind.”
“This is *my* flat!” My voice shook with disbelief. “And I *never* gave permission for you to be here!”
She blinked, glancing at the toys strewn across the floor, the drying laundry in the kitchenas if searching for proof of her right to be there.
“But Gregory said Were his relatives. He told us you wouldnt mindthat you were kind and understanding.”
A wave of cold fury washed over me, sharp and sudden, like ice water dumped over my head.
I shut the door slowly, leaning against it, trying to steady my breathing. *My* home. *My* space. And now, somehow, I was the outsider.
—
A year ago, everything had been different. Id just wrapped up a gruelling restoration projectan old listed building in central Birminghamand was enjoying a well-earned holiday by the coast.
At thirty-four, I was a successful architect, used to relying on no one but myself. My career took up most of my life, and I didnt mindit was fulfilling, and the pay was good.
Gregory was a chance meeting on the pier one sweltering August evening. Charming, slightly older than me, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile.
Divorced for three years. Two kidsa ten-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl. He worked as a site manager for a big construction firm.
He courted me properlyflowers every day, dinners by the water, long walks under the stars.
“Youre different,” hed say, pressing a kiss to my hand. “Smart, independent, beautiful. I havent met a woman like you in years. You know exactly what you want.”
I melted under his words. After a string of failed relationships with men who either resented my success or tried to compete with it, Gregory felt like a gift.
He respected my work. Asked about my projects. Supported me when clients made impossible demands.
“I love that youre strong,” hed say. “But still soft, still *you*.”
The holiday ended, but we didnt. He visited me in Birmingham; I travelled to Nottingham for weekends. Video calls, texts, plans for the future.
Eight months later, he proposed on the same pier where wed met.
The wedding was small but sweet. I moved to Nottingham, transferred to a local firm, and left my Birmingham flat empty.
“Were family now,” hed say, hugging me tight. “My kids are yours. My problems are yours. Well handle everything together.”
At first, I was happy. I loved the feeling of a proper homeof belonging.
I helped with the kidsbought them presents, paid for football and ballet, took them to doctors appointments.
But then, slowly, things shifted.
It started small. Gregory took money from my account without asking. “Forgot to mention, sorry,” hed say when I spotted the deductions.
Then came the requestshelp with his ex-wifes child support.
“You understand, dont you?” Hed give me that guilty smile. “The kids shouldnt suffer just because works been slow this month.”
I *did* understand. I loved him. I cared about those children.
But the requests grewmore frequent, bigger sums.
A trip to visit their grandmother in York. New winter coats. Summer camp fees. A maths tutor.
The worst part? He started transferring money directly to his exwithout warning.
“Theyre *our* kids now,” hed say when I confronted him. “You love them, dont you? And you earn more than meits not like youll miss it.”
“Its not about the money,” Id say, voice low but firm. “Its about respect. You dont just take.”
“Of course, of course. Next time, Ill ask.”
But next time was the same.
I stopped feeling like a wife. I was a walking ATM.
Every time I pushed back, hed twist itcall me selfish, cold, not a *real* family.
“I thought you were different,” hed say bitterly. “I thought money didnt matter to you.”
—
The day I found *them* in my flat, Id still hoped things could be fixed. Maybe some time apart would help.
But what I saw shattered any illusions.
The place was a messdirty dishes piled up, laundry drying in the bathroom, a cot in *my* bedroom.
Unpaid utility bills totalling over £300 sat on the table.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, forcing calm into my voice.
“Three months,” the woman replied. “Gregory said we could stay until we found somewhere. We *paid*£150 a month. He said you agreedthat you had a big heart.”
I called him, hands shaking.
“Gregory. Care to explain why theres a *family* in my flat? And wheres the £450 they paid you?”
“Jules, dont shout” His voice was all wounded innocence. “Theyre relatives! Sarah and the kids had nowhere else to go. You werent using the place. I was saving the moneyfor a surprise holiday to Spain!”
Something in me snapped. Not anger. Clarity.
To him, I wasnt a partner. I was a resource.
“You have one week to get them out,” I said, icy calm.
“Are you *mad*? There are *children*where will they go? Have you no heart?”
“Not my problem. One week. And I want every penny.”
“Youre my *wife*! This is *family*!”
“Family doesnt steal.”
The next week was a blurnew locks, a solicitor, frozen accounts.
He called dailypleading, accusing, guilt-tripping.
“I thought we were *real*,” hed say, voice cracking. “I thought you loved me.”
“You thought my money was yours,” I corrected. “Turns out, it wasnt.”
The divorce was quickno shared assets, no kids together. He returned some of the money. Not all. I didnt fight for the rest.
“Youll regret this,” he hissed at the solicitors office. “Youll end up alone. Whod want someone so *cold*?”
“I want *me*,” I said simply. “Thats enough.”
On the train back to Birmingham, watching the countryside blur past, I didnt mourn the love Id lost.
I just vowed never to lose *myself* again.
Because real love doesnt demand sacrifice.
It doesnt make you a stranger in your own life.
