“I’m moving out. I’ll leave the keys to your flat under the mat,” the husband texted.
“Oh, not this again, Marina! How many times? Every penny counts, and youre going on about a new coat. Whats wrong with the old one? Is it falling apart?”
“Oleg, its not falling apart, its just old! Seven years old. Seven! I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at works updated their wardrobe three times over, and Im stuck looking like Im from another decade. Dont I deserve one measly coat?”
“Of course you do, love,” Oleg threw his hands up, his face twisting in that familiar irritated scowl. “Just not right now. You know Ive got this deal hanging by a threadall my moneys tied up. Once its done, Ill buy you a bloody mink coat if you want. Just hold on a bit longer.”
“Ive been holding on for twenty years, Oleg. My whole life with you, Ive been holding on. First, while you finished uni. Then, saving for your first car. Then, for this flatwell, the renovation, since it came from my parents. Theres always something more important than me.”
Marina surprised herself with the words. Usually, she swallowed the hurt, shuffled off to make tea, and buried it. But today, something snapped. She looked at himher husband, once familiar, now a stranger with that permanent scowl and tired eyes.
“Here we go,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket. “The greatest hits. I cant do this right now. Ive got a meeting.”
“What kind of meeting at nine in the evening?” she asked quietly, though she already knew. These “meetings” had been happening too often.
“Work, Marina, work! Not all of us clock out at five to breathe in library dust. Some of us actually earn so you can dream about coats.”
The door slammed so hard the china rattled in the old cabinet. Marina flinched, standing frozen in the hallway. The silence after was thick, suffocating. She drifted to the kitchen, mechanically filling the kettle. Her hands shooknot from anger, but from the hollow ache inside. She knew he wasnt at a meeting. Knew there was another womanyounger, brighter, from his office. Shed ignored the signs, but they buzzed in her head like flies.
Her phone buzzed in her robe pocket. Probably him, apologisingthe usual “Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk when Im back.” She pulled it out. A message from Oleg. But the words were different.
“I’m moving out. I’ll leave the keys to your flat under the mat.”
Eight words. Short, sharp, like an axe. Marina read them again, then again. The letters blurred. It couldnt be real. A cruel joke. Not after twenty years. Not like this.
She ran to the bedroom, yanked open the wardrobe. His side was nearly empty. Best suits, shirts, jumpersgone. A forgotten tie lay abandoned on the shelf. No watch, no phone charger. Hed packed in advance. The coat argument was just an excuse.
Her legs buckled. She sank onto the bed, struggling to breathe. Twenty years. Her entire adult life. Theyd met at uni, married straight after. Lived in this flathers from her parents. Painted walls, picked furniture, dreamed of kids that never came. She worked at the local library; he built his little business. Life wasnt perfect, but it was theirs. Now, hed erased it with a text.
First, she called Sophie, her only close friend.
“Soph hes gone,” Marina whispered, choking back a sob.
“Whos gone? Where?” Sophie mumbled, half-asleep. “Marina, whats wrong?”
“Oleg. Left. For good. Said hes moving out.”
Silence. Then
“That absolute *prat*!” Sophies voice boomed. “I *told* you his late meetings were dodgy! Look, dont panic. Hell crawl back. They always do.”
“No, Soph. He took his things.”
“Everything?”
“Most of it. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”
“Oh, *hell* noright, stay put. Im coming over. Grab some wine. No, scratch thatwhisky. Were fixing your broken heart.”
Sophie arrived forty minutes later, arms full of groceries and a bottle of Scotch. She marched to the kitchen, dumped cheese, crisps, and lemon on the table.
“Right. Talk. What set him off?”
Marina, steadier now, explained the coat, his constant irritation, the months of cold shoulders.
“Classic,” Sophie huffed, pouring drinks. “Found himself some young fling and decided hes too good for you now. Midlife crisis, the lot of em.”
They drank. The whisky burned, warmth spreading.
“What do I do now, Soph? How do I live?”
“You *live*, Marina. First, change the locks. Tomorrow. No telling what hell do. Second, file for divorce and go after his assets. That window-fitting business of hisstill running?”
“Think so. But its all in his name. The car too.”
“Perfect. Half is yours by law. Let his new bird enjoy him showing up with one suitcase.”
They talked till dawn. Sophie ranted, plotted revenge, while Marina stared blankly. She didnt want revenge. She wanted to rewind to that morning, when he was still there, when theyd shared coffee like always.
Morning came. Sophie left for work. Alone, the flats silence pressed in. Every creak echoed his steps. His dressing gown hung on the kitchen chair. She buried her face in itstill his smell. And then, she broke.
Days blurred. She called in sick, lay staring at the ceiling. Barely ate. Barely slept. No calls. No texts. As if hed never existed.
On day three, she forced herself to call a locksmith. A quick jobnew keys in hand. A small victory. This was her fortress now.
Next, she cleared his leftoversold T-shirts, socks, a toolbox on the balcony. In the loft, a dusty box labelled “OlegDocs.” She dragged it down. Hed stored it years ago”old paperwork,” hed said.
Curiosity won. She opened it. Business files on top. Underneath the deeds to *her* flat. Inheritance papers, receipts. Why here?
Thena loan agreement. Signed by Oleg three years prior. A massive sum borrowed. Collateral? *Her flat.*
Her blood froze. Hed *mortgaged* it. Without her. But how? She was sole owner. She kept reading. Attacheda copy of her passport and a power of attorney. Giving him full control. Her signature. But shed never signed this.
She racked her brain. Three years agoOleg expanding his business, needed cash. One night, hed brought home papers”for taxes, sign quick.” Trusting him, she had. That mustve been it.
Her heart hammered. Three years, her home at risk, and hed said nothing.
She called him. No answer. Texted: *Whats this loan agreement? You mortgaged my flat?!*
Reply: *None of your business. Ill handle it.*
*MY flat, Oleg! You had no right!*
*I did. Power of attorney. Stay out of it.*
Useless. She called Sophie.
“Soph, its worse” she stammered, explaining.
“*What?!*” Sophie screeched. “That *snake*! Right, no tears. You need a solicitor. A *good* one. My bosss husband knows someoneSimon Carter. Helped with a nasty case. Ill get his number.”
An hour later, the number arrived. Marina hesitatedashamed, scared. But fear of losing her home won.
Simon Carter wasnt the grey-haired barrister shed picturedmid-forties, calm grey eyes. His office cosy, professional.
“Marina, tell me what happened.”
She did, voice shaking, showing the documents. Simon listened, made notes.
“Tricky,” he admitted. “The power of attorneys valid. The loan too. He borrowed against your flat. Repayments due in two months. If he defaults, they can take it.”
“Theyll *kick me out*?”
“Possibly. But not hopeless. We can challenge the dealargue you were misled. Itll be tough, but doable.”
“Any other way?”
“Your husband repays. Have you spoken?”
“He told me to stay out of it.”
Simon exhaled. “Right. First, Ill send him a formal demandmight wake him up. Meanwhile, well prep court papers to void the agreement. Times tight.”
Leaving, she felt
