James drove away for a week, supposedly to reeducate his wife by spending time with a lover. When he returned, the hallway was empty, the building quiet.
James sat on the sofa, thumb flicking across his phone, his face tight, brows knit. Emma had grown accustomed to evenings like thisher husband could stare at a screen for hours, ignoring her questions and everything happening around them.
James, are you coming to dinner? Emma asked, moving away from the window.
Later, he muttered, not even looking up.
Emma sighed and walked into the kitchen. The twobed flat belonged to her, inherited from her parents. Her father had died five years earlier, her mother two years after that. The lease had been put in Emmas name while her parents were still alive to avoid a long probate process. When they married, James moved in with her; it seemed sensible, as renting was pricey and the flat was spacious and convenient.
The early years of marriage were calm. James worked as a manager for a construction firm, and Emma taught at a primary school. They strolled through the park in the evenings, took weekend trips to the countryside, and made plans together. Gradually, however, things shifted. James grew irritable, snapping over the smallest things.
Why did you buy this yoghurt? he asked, opening the fridge. I told you I dont like the flavour.
You never said anything, James, Emma replied placidly. Ill buy a different one next time.
That’s just like youalways doing things your way! James snapped, slamming the fridge door.
Emma didnt understand where the complaint came from. He had never fussed about yoghurt before, but now every minor detail became a source of displeasure.
Tension grew. James increasingly accused Emma of being too independent. He disliked that she made decisions without consulting himwhere to go on holiday, what to buy for the house, who to meet on weekends. All of these sparked his irritation.
You didnt even ask my opinion! he roared when Emma mentioned she had bought theatre tickets for Saturday.
James, I suggested that show a month ago, Emma said, surprised. You said it sounded nice.
But you should have confirmed the date! he insisted. I might have other plans on Saturday.
What plans? Emma asked. You were just going to lounge on the sofa and watch TV.
James flushed, stormed out, and slammed the door. Emma stood in the living room, bewildered. Once, he had welcomed such surprises; now any initiative from her provoked anger.
The situation worsened when it involved his mother, Margaret, who lived in a modest house in the suburbs. She called often, inviting James over. He visited every weekend, and Emma kept her company. Lately, those visits became exhausting.
Margaret constantly complained about her health, asked for help with the garden, the fence, and sorting the attic. James silently obliged, while Emma helped around the house. Weekends turned into workdays, and by Sunday night they returned home utterly spent.
James, can we stay home this weekend? Emma suggested one Thursday. Im tired and just want to rest.
What do you mean stay home? James snapped. Mums waiting for us.
Shes waiting every week, Emma replied wearily. We could go next weekend.
No, James cut sharply. Well go on Saturday, as usual.
But I dont want to, Emma said firmly. I want to stay home and relax.
James rose slowly, his face flushing, fists clenched.
So youre refusing to go to my mothers?
Im not refusing forever, Emma tried to explain. Just one weekend off. You could go alone if you wish.
Alone?! James exploded. Do you understand what youre saying? My mother is family! Youre obliged to visit her with me!
James, please dont shout, Emma pleaded. We can discuss this calmly.
Theres nothing to discuss! he yelled. Youve become completely uncontrollable! You do whatever you want, ignore everyone! You think because the flat is yours you can boss me around?
Emma froze. For the first time in their marriage, James mentioned the flat directly. His frustration stemmed not only from the visits to his mother but also from living in a house that wasnt his. That unease had been building, spilling over into endless nitpicking.
James, I never tried to command you, Emma said quietly. The flat isnt the issue.
It is! he roared. Im just a guest in your home! Maybe I should leave so you realise how terrible it is without me!
Everyone can do as they wish, Emma replied evenly.
James stared at her, expecting tears, apologies, surrender. Emma stood with her arms crossed, feeling the sting of his accusations but refusing to show weakness.
So what? You dont care? he hissed through clenched teeth.
I never said I didnt care, Emma answered. But threats wont change anything.
Thats not a threat! James shouted. Ill stay elsewhere, maybe youll miss me then!
Emma felt her blood run cold. Another woman? All those hours on his phone, his constant irritability, his refusal to spend time togethereverything clicked into a single picture.
Understood, she said simply.
James turned and walked to the bedroom. A few minutes later he emerged with a bag, his face hard, movements abrupt. Emma watched silently as he threw his belongings into the suitcase.
Lets see how you cope when youre alone, he muttered, zipping the bag.
Emma said nothing. He slipped on his coat, grabbed the bag, and headed for the door.
One week will be enough for you to get your head straight, he called over his shoulder as he shut the door with a loud bang.
The silence pressed on Emmas ears. Her hands trembled, a hollow feeling settled inside. She shuffled to the living room and sank onto the sofa.
James really had leftfor another woman, to teach his wife a lesson, to prove he could live without her, to make Emma grateful for his presence.
Emma stared at a point on the wall. The resentment burned, yet a strange relief seeped in. Months of tension, arguments, and constant nagging had exhausted her. Now the flat was quiet. No shouting, no slammed doors, no criticism of her independence.
The phone rang just before ten at night. It was her friend Claire.
Emma, how are you? Claire asked, concerned.
Fine, Emma replied. James left.
I saw him at the café on High Street. He was with a woman. At first I thought I imagined it, but then I saw clearlyit was him.
Emma closed her eyes. So it wasnt just a threat; he really had gone to a lover, not to cool off but to flaunt a backup option.
Emma, do you hear me? Claire urged.
Yes, thank you for telling me.
Do you want me to come over?
No, Im okay.
Are you sure?
Yes. Goodnight, Claire.
Emma turned off the phone. James had not gone to cool down; he had gone to a mistress, a woman hed been corresponding with for some time. All those secretive texts, the irritabilitynow it made sense.
She got up, opened the bedroom closet, and found half of Jamess things left behind. He had taken only the essentials, assuming he would return in a week, expecting a docile, frightened wife ready to surrender.
But Emma wasnt about to wait and obey. She dialed a locksmith shed found online24hour service, arrival within the hour.
Good evening, a male voice answered.
Hello. I need a new lock on my front door. Can you come today?
Certainly. Whats the address?
Emma gave the details. The locksmith promised to be there in forty minutes. While waiting, she walked through the flat, noting what remained: his shirts in the wardrobe, shoes by the hall, books on the shelf, a razor in the bathroom. He clearly intended to come back and pick up his life as if nothing had happened.
An hour later the locksmith, a middleaged man with a toolbox, inspected the old lock and fitted a sturdy new one. Emma paid, took the fresh set of keys, and watched him leave. She turned the new lock and rested her back against the door. James could no longer get in; his old keys were useless.
She returned to the bedroom, packed his clothes, shoes, books, and toiletries into two large suitcases, working methodically, trying not to think about anything else.
Done, the locksmith said as he left the hallway. Here are the new keys.
Emma locked the door, feeling a weight lift. Tomorrow she would take the suitcases to the communal stairwell for James to collect. For now she changed into pajamas, lay down, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be the first day without his constant nagging, arguments, and accusations.
The week passed remarkably peacefully. Emma went to work, returned home, cooked only for herself, read novels in the evenings, watched series shed never had time for. No one slammed doors, no one shouted, no one blamed her independence.
On Monday morning she carried the suitcases to the landlords office and placed them by the stairwell, adding a small bag with his paperworkinsurance policy, employment letters, old receipts. She told the neighbour on the ground floor, Mrs. Patel, about the luggage.
What are those? Mrs. Patel asked, peering over the postboxes.
James will collect his things, Emma said briefly.
Oh dear, Mrs. Patel sighed. Young people these days have lost their heads. They used to live and be content.
Emma gave a short nod and went on with her day. Lessons at school, checking pupils notebooks, chatting with colleaguesnone of them knew a husband had left her. It was oddly comforting not to anticipate his criticism of dinner or cleaning.
On Tuesday evening Claire called.
Emma, how are you? Has James gotten in touch?
No, Emma replied calmly. And I dont need him to.
Did you pick up the suitcases?
Theyre still outside.
So he hasnt returned yet, Claire mused. Maybe he really went to his lover for good?
I dont care, Emma said. Let him live wherever he wants.
Claire laughed. Exactly. No point chasing after him. He made his choice, now he deals with it.
After the call Emma brewed herbal tea and sat by the window. Rain drummed against the glass, autumn leaves clung to the pavement. The weather, once melancholy, now felt soothing. Quiet, calm, no one demanding attention.
On Wednesday she stopped at the supermarket after work, buying only what she neededa slice of cheese, a packet of pasta, some salad veg. Before she had bought double for Jamess appetite; now she bought just for herself.
Thursday and Friday moved similarly. She woke, got ready for work, didnt step over Jamess discarded shoes in the hallway, returned to a tidy flat, and read before bed without any snoring to disturb her.
Saturday she undertook a deep cleanscrubbing floors, dusting, washing linens. The flat gleamed. She took a shower, brewed coffee, and settled on the sofa with a book as the streetlights flickered on.
Meanwhile, James was at his lovers flat, nursing a whisky and bragging to his new partner, Hannah.
Youll see, in a week shell call me, begging for me, he said smugly. She cant manage without me.
Hannah, a fitness centre administrator five years younger than Emma, listened halfinterested. Their affair had begun three months ago when James bought a gym membership and theyd met over smoothies.
What if she doesnt call? Hannah asked, scrolling her phone.
She will. Shes used to me fixing thingspaying the rent, changing a lightbulb. Shell ring.
Hannah rolled her eyes. The novelty of Jamess complaints wore thin; she grew bored of his constant venting about Emmas habits.
On Sunday evening James packed his bag and headed back, confident that Emma would be a wreck, ready to apologise and promise change. He imagined the door opening, Emmas tears, his magnanimous forgiveness.
He got off the bus in his old neighbourhood, climbed the stairs to his thirdfloor flat, and fumbled for his keys. The lock turned, but the door stayed shut. He tried again; the new lock resisted. He stared at the shiny new mechanism and realised Emma had changed it.
He looked at the two suitcases stacked by the hallway, opened one to see his documentsinsurance policy, work references, old receiptsexactly as Emma had left them.
He stood there, speechless, for a few seconds, trying to grasp the scene. Emma had collected his things, replaced the lock, and wasnt opening the door.
He rang the bell. No sound. He rang again. Still silence. It seemed Emma was home but would not answer, or perhaps she wasnt there at all.
Emma! he shouted, pounding on the door. Open up! Im back!
The hallway remained empty. He pounded harder.
Emma, stop this nonsense! Open the door!
From the flat next door came footsteps, and Mrs. Patel appeared, smiling.
Its late, dear. Lessons over, she said.
What? James asked, baffled.
I say its late. Youve had your weeknow sort yourself out, she replied. Emma changed the lock, good on her. Folks like you need a reminder that you cant control everything.
James stared at the boarded door, the reality sinking in. Emma had truly shut him out, changed the lock, and left the flat to him. He tried his phone; the call went straight to voicemail. He sent a text: Open the door. We need to talk. It showed as read, but no reply.
He shouted again, louder, Enough! Open it now!
Silence. He sat on the suitcase, trembling, his mind a muddle. He had expected Emma to be waiting, crying, apologising. Instead she was calmly packing his belongings and moving on.
He realized there was nowhere left for him to return. The flat he once called home was now locked, his lovers apartment was a dead end, and his mothers house was far from his work, demanding questions he could not answer.
He tried calling Emma again; the line cut. He sent another message: Im sorry, I was wrong. Lets start over. It was read, unanswered.
Emma sat in the kitchen, sipping coffee, hearing Jamess frantic knocks through the thin walls. She felt no urge to open. A week without him had shown how much lighter life wasno arguments, no accusations, just peace.
The phone on the table displayed missed calls from James. She glanced at them, then turned it off, blocking his number. He could try again, but there was nothing left for him to say.
Later that night she rose, poured the remaining coffee into a mug, and walked to the living room. She switched on the floor lamp, settled into an armchair with a novel, and for the first time in years felt truly calm. No shouting, no nagging, no constant tensionjust quiet and contentment.
The next day James tried his work phone. Emma answered briefly, but the conversation ended quickly.
Emma, open the door. I need some of my things, he said.
The suitcases are in the hallway. Take them, she replied.
I want to talk. Lets meet.
No. I have nothing to discuss with you.
Im sorry, Ive apologised! Lets start again!
James, you went to another woman to teach me a lesson. The lesson ended for you. Take your things and live your own life.
She hung up and blocked his number again. He kept calling from different numbers, but she never answered.
A month later Emma filed for divorce. She gathered the paperwork, went to the register office, and signed the decree. With no children and the flat legally hers, there was nothing to split. The divorce was final within a month.
James tried to meet, sent messages through mutual friends, begged for a second chance. Emma remained firm. He had shown his true facemanipulative, threatening, and willing to leave for a lover just to prove a point. Those were not relationships she wanted.
Six months passed. Emma settled into solo lifeworking, meeting friends, reading, weekend trips to the countryside. No one chastised her independence, no motherinlaw demanded weekly visits, no fights over yoghurt or theatre tickets.
Claire visited often, marveling at the transformation.
Emma, youre glowing! she said over tea. Its been ages since Ive seen you so happy.
Because I finally live for myself, Emma smiled. Im not trying to please anyone, Im not bending, Im not tolerating criticism.
Is James still calling? Claire asked.
No. After the divorce he disappeared. I heard hes renting a flat on the outskirts, and his fling with Hannah fell apartshe threw him out after two weeks.
Claire laughed. Thats a lesson right there. He tried to teach a wife, and ended up alone with a broken ego.
Emma shrugged. Jamess fate no longer bothered her. He had made his choice; now he dealt with the consequences.
That evening, after Claire left, Emma sat by the window with a cup of tea. Outside, rain drummed, leaves slipped onto the pavement. Autumn reminded her of itself, but now it brought only calm, not melancholy.
She took a sip and smiled. James had tried to reeducate her, to prove how useless she was without him. In the end, it was he who learned the hardest truth: freedom and peace are far more valuable than control and manipulation. The real lesson was that a life lived for oneself, free from constant conflict, is the greatest reward.
