A Message from the Wife “Darling, could you pick me up from work?” Jenny called her husband, hoping she wouldn’t have to spend forty minutes rattling around on the bus after a long day. “I’m busy,” he answered curtly. In the background, she could clearly hear the TV—so Arty was definitely home. Jenny wanted to cry. Their marriage was falling apart, and just six months ago her husband couldn’t do enough for her. What had changed so quickly? She didn’t know. She looked after herself, spending plenty of time at the gym. She was a fantastic cook—after all, she worked at one of the city’s most popular restaurants. She never asked for money, never made a fuss, never failed to make her husband happy. “You’ll get on his nerves if you keep pampering him like this,” her mum would say, listening to Jenny’s complaints. “Men don’t like everything handed to them on a plate.” “I just love him,” Jenny would smile helplessly. “And he loves me…” ***** “I guess he’s bored of me,” Jenny chewed her lip, scrolling through his browsing history. Apparently, Arty spent all his free time on dating sites, chatting up loads of different girls. “Why couldn’t he just talk to me about it? I would have understood. Why torture yourself living with someone you don’t love? And me with your attitude?” So—divorce. Well, she could manage. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook quite so easily. He deserved a little payback. That evening, Jenny registered on the very same dating site as her husband, found his profile, and sent him a message. She grabbed a photo off the internet, applied a bit of Photoshop, and was sure Arty would take the bait. He did. The messages started flowing. Arty described himself as single, ready for a real relationship, even for children. He kept raving about his amazing character—Jenny nearly cried with laughter; she knew how hard it was to actually live with him. “Let’s meet up,” Jenny wrote, holding her breath for a reply. “I’m up for it,” Arty wrote back a few seconds later. “But my sister’s staying at mine while she prepares for her uni exams, so let’s meet on neutral turf—and maybe continue the evening at a hotel?” “Seriously?” Jenny blurted as she read. “Why do you just assume your date will go straight to a hotel with you? Any decent person would be insulted! Still—it works in my favour.” “How about we meet at mine? I live alone in a cottage outside the city. No one will bother us…” Jenny wondered if he’d say yes. “Brilliant idea!” Arty was clearly delighted—probably about not having to fork out for a hotel. “Send me the address and time. I’ll rush over on the wings of love.” “25 Willow Lane, ten o’clock. Does that work?” “Perfect! I’ll be there.” At nine, Arty pretended he’d been called into work. He couldn’t find his car keys and finally asked Jenny if she’d seen them. “They were on the table,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye while clutching the keys in her pocket. “Maybe the cat knocked them somewhere?” “Fine, I’ll take a taxi. Don’t wait up.” Jenny had no intention of waiting up. She spent her time packing her things—luckily, she had her own flat from her gran. The only thing she left behind was the divorce form, right out in the open. Arty didn’t get home until morning, absolutely fuming. It had taken him over an hour just to get there, and as for “Angela” from the website—let’s just say the girl who answered the door looked nothing like her photos. The woman was three times his size, dressed only in a semi-transparent dressing gown, and Arty would’ve paid anything to erase the sight from his mind. To make matters worse, she wouldn’t let him leave easily—he had to call a taxi to escape her. While he waited, he froze out in the windswept front garden, shivering in his blazer. The taxi took forever, and then the strange driver took him even further out of his way before finally dropping him home. What a night. Only then, when he saw the divorce papers on the table, did it click who’d been behind the whole ordeal. Next to the papers, scrawled in lipstick, were the words: This Sweet Revenge…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 1

Hello from your wife

Love, will you pick me up after work? Emily calls her husband, hoping she can avoid the dreary forty-minute bus ride after a long day at the bistro.

Im busy, David says curtly. In the background, she can clearly hear the telly, which means David is obviously at home.

Emilys eyes sting with tears. Their marriage is unraveling at the seams. Six months ago, he acted like he adored her. What happened in such a short span of time? She honestly cant say.

She keeps herself in shape, spending plenty of time at the gym. Her cooking is second to none hardly surprising since shes a chef at a popular restaurant. Shes never pestered him for money, never thrown tantrums, always been eager to fulfil his every desire.

Youll spoil him rotten, her mother sighs, patiently listening to Emilys woes. A man will lose interest if you always give him his way.

I just love him, Emily smiles weakly back. And he loves me, too

******************************

Clearly, I have bored him stiff, Emily mutters, biting her lip as she scrolls through the computers browsing history. Apparently, David is spending all his free time on dating websites, chatting up several women at once. Why not just talk to me? I would have understood. I would have let go. Why torture yourself, staying with someone you dont love, and making her suffer too?

So, divorce it is. Shes tough shell manage. But shes not about to let him go that easily. A little taste of poetic justice is well deserved

That very evening, Emily signs up on the same dating website, finds Davids profile, and sends him a message. She plucks a photo off the internet, tweaks it with a bit of Photoshop, and feels certain hell take the bait. And of course, he does.

They strike up an energetic conversation. David assures his new friend hes single, ready for a serious relationship and children. He waxes lyrical about his marvellous personality, which Emily finds hilarious. After all, she knows better than anyone how difficult it is to please him.

Lets meet up, Emily writes, holding her breath, waiting for his reply.

Id love to, he answers within moments. But my sister is crashing at mine for her university entrance exams, so how about somewhere neutral? We could finish the evening at a hotel.

Excuse me? Emily cant help saying aloud. Why are you so sure any woman would immediately agree to a hotel? Anyone with decency would be offended by that! Although, in this case, it works in my favour.

How about mine instead? I live in a cottage just outside town. Im alone. No one will interrupt us She wonders if hell take the bait.

A brilliant idea! David is obviously delightedlikely at the thought of not spending extra money. Send the address and time. Ill fly over on the wings of love!

25 Maple Drive, ten oclock tonight. Will that do?

Absolutely! Ill be there.

Around nine, David feigns an urgent work call. He cant find his car keys and reluctantly asks Emily if shes seen them.

They were on the hall table, Emily answers, meeting his eyes, while the keys tremble in her pocket. Maybe the cat nicked them?

Fine, Ill call a taxi. Dont wait up.

Emily has no intention of waiting. Why would she? She spends the evening packing her things. Fortunately, she owns a flat, inherited from her gran. The only item she leaves behind is a divorce petition, laid out in plain sight.

David stumbles home just after sunrise, absolutely seething. Not only did it take over an hour to get there, but Angela from the dating site was nowhere to be found.

The address was real, the house was real, but the woman who answered the door was three times his size, wearing only a nearly see-through dressing gown. David would have paid good money just to erase the sight from his memory.

He barely managed to get away from this crazy woman and had to shell out for another taxi just to escape. While waiting ages for the car, he nearly froze in his blazer, and even then, the driver took a wrong turn and drove him halfway across the countryside All in all, not the night hed hoped for.

Only when David unlocks his own front door and spots the divorce petition on the table does he finally understand who orchestrated the nights entertainment. Next to it, scrawled in lipstick on the table, are the words:

This sweet revengeHis hands tremble as he takes in the neat stack of papers, Emilys elegant signature already at the bottom. Shame, regret, even a faint sting of begrudging admiration flicker through him. He flips the first page, seeing the truth spelled out in unyielding black and white.

Down the hall, the familiar scent of her perfume lingers in the air, bittersweet proof of all hes lost. The flat feels hollowutterly silent but for the nagging whir of the refrigerator and the echo of his own mistakes.

Meanwhile, Emily sits at her grandmothers old table, the late morning sun streaming through the kitchen window. She cradles a hot cup of coffee, her phone alive with hopeful messages from friends. A new day hums at the edges of her world, brimming with possibilities.

She laughs softlyfree, relieved, and, just maybe, a little bit wicked. For the first time in ages, she feels light, her heart untouched by bitterness. There will be no more dreary bus rides, no more desperate questions, no more shrinking herself to fit in someone elses story.

She raises her cup in a silent toast. To new beginnings, poetic justice, and the delicious taste of taking back her own happy ending.

‘We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!’: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it wailed, demanding attention. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, the one day I’d hoped to sleep in after a hellish quarterly report, not play hostess. On the screen: my sister-in-law’s face, charging in like she was storming the Tower of London, three wild-haired children in tow. “Igor!” I shouted through gritted teeth. “Your relatives—your problem.” He stumbled out, pulling his shorts on backwards, fully aware that my patience for his family was buried deeper than the Tube. I’d sweat blood to buy this three-bed in central London before we even got married—my rules, my home, absolutely no squatters. Yet in barged Svetlana, shoving me aside as if I were a hatstand, dumping her bags onto my Italian stone tiles. “Thank goodness, we made it!” she announced, ordering me to get the kettle on as if this were her own manor. “It’s just for a week,” she said, explaining how their flat’s ‘full refurb’ left them homeless—cue wide-eyed innocence. “Seven days,” I snapped, setting strict house rules. Svetlana rolled her eyes—the hospitality was lost on her. One week turned to two, then three. My designer flat descended into chaos: dirty shoes everywhere, sticky counters, and Svetlana acting like Lady of the Manor. She even had the nerve, one night, to sneer, “Can’t you fill the fridge? You earn well enough—surely you can look after family?” But the final straw came when I caught her children bouncing on my orthopaedic mattress (priced like a first-class ticket), my limited-edition Tom Ford lipstick smeared across my bedroom wall. Svetlana waltzed in, shrugging, “They’re just kids! The lipstick? Oh, buy another. We’ll be here till summer, by the way—the builders are drunks. Bit of fun for you, isn’t it?” I left before I did something criminal. But then her phone flashed with a message: “Svetlana, I’ve sent next month’s rent. Tenants are happy to stay till August. +£800 to your account.” It clicked—there was no renovation. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her tribe in with me, soaking up free food and bills, raking in passive income, all on my dime. Genius—if you’re shameless. I snapped a photo of her phone and showed my husband. “Either she’s gone by lunchtime, or you’re both out. Your choice.” When Svetlana left ‘for shopping’ the next morning (presumably for luxury boots with her rent takings), I seized the moment—called a locksmith and the police. Forty minutes later, Svetlana returned from Harrods to find her things (stuffed in bin bags) by the lift and me standing firm at the door with a police officer. “Get your things. The hotel is closed,” I declared. She wailed. “My kids! My rights! I’ve nowhere to go!” I coolly replied: “Try your own flat—assuming your tenants don’t mind. If you step foot here again, I’ll report you to HMRC for undeclared rental income, and to the police for theft—a missing gold ring, perhaps?” Pale and defeated, she hauled her bags away, cursing me to kingdom come. Once the doors closed behind her, my husband returned—alone. “That was the last time,” I warned. “Next time your family pulls this, your suitcase will be right out there with theirs.” At last, I drank hot coffee in perfect silence in my own flat—renovated, peaceful, and finally, all mine. My crown didn’t slip—in fact, it fit perfectly.

Déjà Vu She Had Always Waited for Letters. Since Childhood. All Her Life. Addresses Changed. Trees Seemed Smaller, People More Distant, Hopes Fainter. He Trusted No One and Expected Nothing. Outwardly, Just an Ordinary, Strong Man—Work, a Dog at Home, Trips Alone or with His Four-Legged Friend. She Was an Endearing Girl with Big Sad Eyes. When Someone Asked Her, “What Can’t You Leave the House Without?” She’d Say, “My Smile!” and Her Dimples Spoke for Themselves. She’d Always Been Friends with Boys—A Pirate in a Skirt, They Called Her in Her London Neighbourhood. But Alone, She Played a Game: She Was a Mum with Many Kids, a Good Husband, Living in a Large, Cosy House with a Flowering Garden. He Couldn’t Imagine Life Without Sport: Medals, Trophies, and Certificates Dozing in a Garage Box—Kept for His Parents Who Were So Proud! For Him, It Was Never About the Wins, But the Challenge and the Surge of New Strength After Exhaustion. Her Parents Had Died When She Was Seven. She and Her Younger Brother Were Sent to Different Foster Homes. They Grew Up Apart, With Their Own Battles and Joys. Those Homes Were Behind Them Now—They Lived Across the Road from Each Other, In a Neighbourhood of Cosy Streets, Cheery Gardens, and Farmer’s Markets. Her Brother’s Family Were Her Closest Friends. It Was an Anxious Day… Her Shift Ended and She Crossed the Ambulance Car Park. Old Arthur, the Senior Driver, Caught Up, Gave Her a Fatherly Hug, and Thanked Her for the Pies. “Get Some Rest, Will You?” “Plenty of Time!” She Grinned, Blew Him a Kiss, and Hurried to Her Car. In the Holidays, She and Her All-Male Crew Were Often on Shift—Few Doctors Wanted the Holiday Hours. Being Well-groomed Boosted Morale—A Cheerful Doctor Changes Everything. He, Meanwhile, Was Racing Toward His Parents’ House, Medals Rattling in the Boot, Dog Restless on the Backseat. His Dad Had Suggested They Welcome the New Year Together. He’d Loaded The Box of Trophies, Glad He Wasn’t On Duty for Once. His Heart Ached Over Rare Visits Home… Days Before Christmas, His Father’s Phone Call Woke Him: “Mum’s Ill.” His Father, A Retired Colonel, Couldn’t Hide His Worry. His Parents, Together Since School, Still Looked At Each Other Like Young Lovers. She Was Baking as Always—A Tradition, Delivering Pies Around the City After Her Shift. She’d Slept a Few Hours at Work—Otherwise, Old Arthur Wouldn’t Let Her Drive, He’d Insist on Being Her Chauffeur. About Ten Miles from His Childhood Home, A Blizzard Began. He Remembered His Dog Not Wanting to Get In, Those Countless Trips, The Road, Always The Road… “Mum, Dad—Hold On… You’re All I’ve Got.” The Dog Licked His Head in Sympathy. “Sorry, Old Boy. Of Course, You Too…” She Slowed The Engine—the Blizzard Hit at the Worst Time. One Pie Left, Just a Few Miles Along the Village Road to Her Favourite Patient—A Spirited Elderly Lady (though She’d Never Call Her “Granny”) with Her Loving Husband, Both Keen Travelers. Who Her Own Parents Might Have Become… A Shadow Leapt—Right Into Her Headlights. Against The White Curtain of Snow. “Where Did You Come From, Girl, From the Woods? Or Did Someone Lose You?… Those Eyes! Why Is Your Neck So Sticky?… Wet Jumper, Everything Spinning… Jack—Jack, Old Friend… Why Does It Hurt So Much? Mum, I’m Coming, Dad, I’m So Close… Dark.” Arthur Was Out of Reach. He Went to Get His Grandkids. No, The Ambulance Wouldn’t Make It Through This Snow. “Hang In There, Mate—Let Me Get You Free. My God! There’s a Dog, Too…” She’d Only Just Set Off Again When a Silver Car Whipped Past. “Someone’s Racing Home,” She Thought. But Barely Minutes On, She Found The Silver Car Flipped Into a Ditch. A Black Dog Lay Nearby—Alive, At Least. “Is It Even Late?” She Wondered, Letting a Hot Shower Chase Away Her Shivers. “How’d You Get Him Out? He’s a Solid Bloke!” Her Brother’s Voice Echoed in Her Mind, the Ache of Her Muscles Proof Enough. She Took the Man and Both Dogs to Hospital in Her Own Car. On the Way, Her Brother Met Her to Help. She Returned Later to The Village—to Deliver The Pie After All, and Picked Up The Box That Had Fallen from The Car’s Boot. “Perhaps It Means Something to That Man. At Least Everyone Survived… When He Comes Round, I’ll Return It.” The Elderly Lady’s Husband, Looking Lost, Answered Her Knock. “Is Something Wrong?” She Asked. “My Wife’s In Hospital. I Haven’t Heard from Our Son, Can’t Reach Him…” She Lowered Her Eyes. “Are You All Right?” He Took Her Hand. “Shall I Drop You at The Hospital?” She Offered. They Drove Silently; The Snow Had Ceased. “You’ve Got a Box on Your Backseat—May I Ask Where It’s From?” The Colonel Finally Asked. “There Was a Crash. The Man Tried to Dodge a Dog Dashing From the Woods—The Silver Car Overturned, and the Box Fell Out…” “A Silver Car? With a White Dog Inside? The Dog From the Woods Was Black?” He Whispered. She Stopped the Car, Turned to Him. He Clenched His Fists, Stared Ahead. “He’s Alive! And Your Wife Will Recover.” She Hugged Him. “May I Call You Daughter?” “Of Course,” She Said, Tears Caught in Her Eyes. “My Wife Kept Dreaming About a Black Dog, Over and Over… But Our Son’s Dog Is White… Where Did the Black One Come From?” “Those Eyes—Unbelievable, So Sad…” Was the First Thing He Thought When He Woke, His Father Dozing by The Bedside. “Mum. The Crash.” He Remembered Everything—and The Girl’s Eyes. They Celebrated New Year at the End of January. His Mum Was Mending, His Dad Was Joyful, Jack (His Dog) Was Still Limping a Little, But Would Be Fine. The Boys Needed Training for Upcoming Competitions, But He Lingered at His Parents’ House—Thinking Always of The Girl… Already at the Gate, His Father Called Him From The Attic Window. “Need a Hand, Dad?” He Smiled at the Shelves—His Sports Trophies Had Somehow Made Their Way There. “How Did These Get Here, Colonel?” He Grinned. “Have a Guess!… I’ll Walk Jack Before You Go.” She Was Heading Home Early—Dina Was Waiting for Her. She Couldn’t Abandon the Black-and-White Dog at the Vet’s; The Mark on Her Chest Was a Heart. She Entered Her Building, Automatically Checked Her Letterbox. Almost Closed It, but Spotted a White Envelope. Inside, it Read: I’ll Come By This Evening. Thank You, Dear! Love Is a Compass—It Helps Us Find Our Way