My Husband Suggested We Live Apart to Test Our Feelings—So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, I feel like we’ve grown apart. Everyday life just wears us down. I’ve been thinking… maybe we need to live separately for a while,” Ben announced, so casually that it was as if he were suggesting switching from white to brown bread for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his bowl of stew, soaking up another piece of bread, while I stood frozen with the ladle in hand, hot broth burning my wrist, but I barely noticed. The ringing in my ears was like a vacuum cleaner set to full blast right next to me. “What do you mean, live separately?” I managed to ask, trying not to let my voice shake. I set the ladle down, afraid it would slip right out of my numb fingers. “Is this about a work trip?” “No, not a work trip,” Ben grimaced, finally meeting my eyes, with the tired, slightly annoyed look of a teacher forced to explain something obvious to a wayward pupil. “I’m talking about a break. Testing our feelings. You know, the spark is gone. I come home and I feel… stifled. It’s always the same: work, dinner, telly, bed. I want to know—do I really want to be with you, or is it just habit?” I slowly sank into a chair across from him. Twenty years of marriage. Two kids, both now away at university. The mortgage paid off three years ago. The DIY renovations, pulling off old wallpaper together at weekends. And now—’stifled’? “And where exactly will you live, while you’re… testing?” I asked quietly. “I’ve rented a studio flat. For a couple of months. Near work, so I don’t get stuck in traffic,” he replied a little too quickly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I’ve already started packing up, my stuff’s in the bedroom.” So he’d made up his mind ages ago. While I was planning new plants for the garden and picking up a jumper for him in the sales, he was flat-hunting. Paying deposits. Keeping it all quiet. “And what about how I feel?” I looked at my husband, searching for any trace of the young man I married. In his place sat a stranger, greying, pudgy, shifty-eyed. “Helen, don’t start the dramatics,” Ben set his spoon down. He’d lost his appetite after all. “I’m not asking for a divorce. Yet. Just a break. Loads of couples do it; it’s healthy. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t be without each other—and it’ll be like a second honeymoon. Or… well, at least we’ll be honest if we split.” He got up, tossed his napkin on the table, and went to the bedroom. I heard the wardrobe doors, the rustle of bags. I sat in the kitchen, staring at his favourite stew—just the way he liked, with beans—and felt a cold emptiness growing inside. The evening passed in a fog. Ben bustled about, moving suitcases to the front hall with military efficiency. He took his laptop, the coffee machine (it was a present from my work, but he used it most), his warmest jumpers. “Alright, I’m off,” he said at the front door, looking both solemn and a bit guilty. “Don’t ring me, okay? Let’s agree on no calls for a month. For the experiment’s sake.” “What if there’s a plumbing disaster?” I asked foolishly. “Call a plumber. You’re a grown woman. I’ll keep my keys on me, in case I need to pop back for anything. Well, goodbye. Don’t pine.” The door slammed and the lock clicked shut. I was alone; the flat had never felt so big or so eerily quiet. For the first three days, I did almost nothing. Got up to get water or go to the loo, but that was it. I replayed the past months over and over—had I nagged too much about his socks? Had I put on weight? Was I just boring? On the fourth day, my sister, Kate, showed up. She swept in, arms loaded with shopping bags—and a bottle of wine. One look at me, sobbing in my dressing gown with greasy hair, and she just shook her head. “Come on, love, get yourself in the shower while I slice the cheese,” she ordered. An hour later, over a glass of wine in the kitchen, I recounted everything. Kate listened intently. “A ‘test of feelings’? He’s ‘stifled’?” she snorted. “Helen, you’re a smart woman—you juggle spreadsheets all day. But here, you’re missing two plus two. He’s got another woman.” “No, don’t be daft,” I waved her off. “He’s fifty-two, has a dodgy back and acid reflux. Honestly, who’d want him?” “Oh, please! Reflux never stopped anyone. The classic: ‘studio flat’, ‘don’t call me’, ‘testing our feelings’—he wants to see what it’s like with the other woman, but keep you as backup. If it works out, he’ll file for divorce. If not, he’ll crawl back begging. Seen it a hundred times.” Her words crashed down on me. I tried to defend Ben, but I knew deep down she was right. The change in his phone password, the late nights at work, the new shirt he’d bought himself (he hated shopping). “So what do I do?” I asked, anger finally firing up inside. “What you do is live, Helen! Go get your hair done. Buy something for yourself. Most importantly, stop jumping every time your phone beeps. This flat—whose is it?” “Mine. I inherited it from mum,” I answered automatically. “Ben’s still registered at his mum’s; we never bothered with the paperwork.” “Perfect! Means you call the shots. Listen, don’t sit around weeping. He thinks you’ll be waiting, all soggy pillows. Surprise him.” I couldn’t sleep that night. I wandered the flat, switching on every light. In the bathroom, I spotted his shaving cream on the shelf, grabbed it, and chucked it straight in the bin. The hollow thud as it hit was like the opening shot in a new war. Over the next fortnight, things changed. I forced myself back to work; colleagues put my weight loss down to a ‘spring detox’. I started noticing things: the flat was tidier without Ben. No crumbs, no dirty jeans tossed over chairs. Food lasted longer. I didn’t need to cook huge meals; I was happy with salad. I rediscovered the joys of evenings to myself—picked up my old knitting again. The silence became healing, not frightening. No one ranting about politics or switching over my films. But still, doubts lingered. Maybe Kate was wrong. Maybe Ben really was living alone, missing me. Everything came to a head that Friday. I was in the shopping centre, picking up some wool, when I saw them. Ben was outside a jeweller’s, arm-in-arm with a younger woman—thirty, at a stretch, in a flashy red coat. He was smiling at her, just the way he used to smile at me aged twenty. They laughed, arm-in-arm, looking like the perfect couple. I shrank back. My heart hammered in my skull as I watched my ‘stifled’ husband who ‘needed time alone’ holding another woman as if she were the most precious thing. In that moment, something in me died—and something else, cold and calm, was born. I didn’t make a scene. Didn’t follow them. I drove home in silence. First thing when I got in, I dug out my flat’s deeds—ownership in my name, from my mum. No Ben. He was never on the deeds, always dismissed sorting the paperwork with, “No point, I’m at my mum’s on paper anyway.” I called a locksmith. “Hello—can you change the locks on a metal front door? Yes, I have the deeds. How soon? An hour? Perfect.” The locksmith, built like a rugby prop, came quickly and didn’t ask questions. “Fit the most secure you’ve got,” I ordered. “Even if someone’s got an old key, I don’t want them getting in.” “No problem, love. We’ll fit a Chubb—no one’s getting through without a battle.” The whine of the drill was sweet music. Metal shavings fell on the doormat as the old lock clattered out—a perfect sound for shedding old pain. When he’d finished, I took my new, gleaming keys, locked the door tightly—click, click, click, click. Four strong turns. Four walls of my own castle. I packed up all of Ben’s things—winter jackets, shoes, fishing rods, tools—into black bin bags, staking them in the corridor outside the flat. A week passed. Not a peep from Ben—the ‘test of feelings’ with his younger muse was apparently going well. I filed for divorce online (it’s surprisingly painless). Saturday morning, the bell rang. Persistent, insistent. I checked the peephole—there he was, looking dishevelled but smug, holding a bag of groceries and a bunch of carnations. I didn’t open. Pressing my forehead to the cool metal of the door, I waited. He tried his key: scrape, scrape. Nothing. Again, with more force. Fail. He pulled it out, blew on it, tried again. “Helen!” he shouted. “Helen, are you home? What’s wrong with the lock?” I kept silent. “Helen, open up! I know you’re there—the car’s outside!” He started banging. “What’s this, a joke? I came back, with flowers! We agreed a month, but I wanted to see you sooner! I missed you!” I took a breath. Calmly, clearly: “Your things are in the black bags to the left of the door. Take them and go.” Silence on the other side. He’d seen the bags. “Have you lost your mind? What bags? Open up—now! I’m your husband, I have a right to come in!” “This isn’t your home, Ben,” I replied. “This is my flat. You wanted to live separately? Fine. Go live separately—from me. Forever.” “You…you changed the locks? How dare you! I’ll call the police! Get emergency services—someone will break this door down!” “Be my guest,” I replied. “Show them your registration. Tell them how you left to ‘test your feelings’ with your girlfriend. I’m sure they’ll have a good laugh.” “What girlfriend? Nonsense! I lived alone!” “I saw you at the shopping centre, Ben. Jeweller’s. Red coat. Enough lies. The experiment’s over. You’ve got your result.” There was a stream of expletives, then he kicked the door. “You’ll be sorry! You’ll end up alone—no one wants a washed-up forty-five year old! I only came back out of pity! I’ll take half your stuff—the car, the holiday home!” “The car and the cottage—we’ll split through the courts, as the law says,” I replied. “You’ll never get the flat. Leave now, Ben, or I’ll call the police and tell them a strange, aggressive man is banging down my door.” He raged for another minute, then threw the flowers on the floor, dragged the bags, and disappeared. I slumped onto the floor, legs trembling, tears streaming—but not tears of sadness. Just relief, emptying the old pain. After ten minutes, I stood, washed my face. Met my own stare in the mirror—tired eyes, but my chin held high. A text from Kate: “So, our Romeo was parked outside—how’d it go?” I replied: “Gone. Took his things. The new locks work brilliantly.” “Good on you! Proud of you! I’ll bring cake tonight and we’ll celebrate your new beginning!” In the kitchen, I put the kettle on. Spotted his abandoned carnations through the peephole—they were still there. Good thing I’d never opened up. Carnations. Twenty years, and he’d never remembered I hate carnations. I love tulips. A month later, the divorce came through—quick, since our kids were adults. The cottage was sold and we split the money; Ben kept the car, paid me off, and I put the cash towards my first solo holiday. As I heard from mutual friends, Ben’s “muse” ditched him as soon as she realised he’d lost his comfy flat and was facing an uncertain future. He couldn’t keep up the rent and moved back in with his mum in the old council maisonette on the edge of town. I found out by accident, but it didn’t bother me. I’d just got back from Turkey, tanned, with a new dress—maybe even a holiday romance with a charming German. Nothing serious, just a reminder that I was still attractive. One evening, coming home from work, I heard my name. “Helen?” Ben stood by the bench, thinner, in a crumpled jacket, looking battered. “Hi,” I said, barely breaking stride. “Helen, can we talk? I was stupid, made a mistake. Mum nags me to death. I miss our home—your stew… Maybe we could try again? You can’t just forget twenty years…” I looked at him and, to my surprise, felt nothing—no anger, no pain, no pity. Just emptiness, as if a stranger had asked me for change. “You can’t erase twenty years,” I agreed. “But the past belongs in the past. I’ve got a new life, Ben. There’s no room in it for old mistakes—or you.” “I’ve changed! I really get it now!” “So have I,” I smiled. “And now I know—it’s not stifling being alone. It’s freedom.” I took out my bright, new keys, and strode into my building. The intercom beeped, letting me through, cutting Ben and his regrets off behind me. In the lift, I started planning which new paint to pick for the hallway. Peach, maybe. And I’ll buy myself that comfy new armchair for knitting in the evenings. Life was only just beginning—and the keys to it were finally, and completely, in my hands.

My darling, I think weve become strangers to each other. Lifes just swallowed us up. Ive been thinking We need to try living apart for a while.

David said this as if he were suggesting we buy granary bread instead of white for supper. He didnt even look up from his bowl of stew, tearing off a chunk of bread absently. I stood frozen at the hob, ladle in hand, feeling hot soup drip down my wrist, burning my skinyet strangely numb. In my ears, it sounded like a hoover had suddenly started up at full blast right next to me.

What do you mean, apart? I tried to keep my voice steady, quietly returning the ladle to the pot, hoping I wouldnt drop it if my fingers gave out. Are you being sent away with work?

No, no work trip, David grimaced, finally meeting my eye, but his look was distant and vaguely annoyed, the way a teacher glances at a hopeless pupil. I mean a breaka test of our feelings. The sparks gone, Emma. I come home, and its stifling. Same old routine: work, dinner, telly, sleep. I need to figure out if I still want to be with you, or if its just habit.

I slowly sat opposite him. Twenty years of marriage. Two grown children, both off at uni in different cities. Wed paid off the mortgage three years back. House DIY completed together, weekend wallpaper stripping and all. And nowstifling?

And where do you plan to stay while youre, what, testing? I asked in a low voice.

Ive rented a flat. For a couple of months. Its near workno point sitting in traffic, he replied too quickly, as if rehearsed. Ive started packing already, my things are in the bedroom.

So, hed been planning this. While I made lists for spring plants at the allotment, while hunting for a new jumper for him in the January saleshe was flat-hunting, paying deposits, keeping schtum all the while.

And my opinion doesnt matter to you? I said, searching his face for the boy I once married. But there sat a strangersoftened around the edges, darting eyes.

Emma, dont make a scene. David laid down his spoon as his appetite evaporated. Im not talking about a divorce. Yet. Just a time-out. Its quite normal, lots of people do this. Even therapists recommend it. Maybe well realise we cant live without each other, have a second honeymoon. Or at least a clean break if not.

He stood, tossed his napkin on the table, and went to fetch his bags. I heard the wardrobe doors banging, plastic bags rustling. I stayed sat in the kitchen, staring at the stewhis favourite, with beans, just as askedfeeling an immense, icy emptiness expand inside me.

The evening passed as though wrapped in fog. David busied himself sorting bags in and out of the hallway. He took his laptop, his precious coffee maker (gift from my colleagues, used almost exclusively by him), all his warm jumpers.

Well, Im off then, he said by the door, zipped into his coat, looking both determined and a touch sheepish. Dont call me for now, lets agreea month of silence. For the integrity of the experiment.

What if theres a leak? I blurted out stupidly.

Ring a plumber. Youre perfectly capable. Ill keep my keys, just in case I need to grab something. Right, see you, dont pine for me too much.

The door slammed. Key turned. I was left alone in a flat that suddenly seemed cavernous and dauntingly silent.

For three days, I simply lay around. Only rising for water and the loo. I felt like life had ended, replaying recent months, wondering where Id gone wrong. Did I nag about his socks too much? Was I boring? Had I let myself go?

On the fourth day, my sister Kate arrived, storming in with bags of groceries and a bottle of wine. She took one look at metear-streaked, in my dressing gown, hair unwashedand only shook her head.

Right, love, this wont do. Up you get, go shower. Ill sort the food.

An hour later, seated in the kitchen with a glass of merlot, I relayed the whole tale. Kate listened, eyes narrowed.

Testing feelings? Hes bored? Emma, youre the sharpest one in the office and cant add two and two? Hes seeing someone else.

Oh come on! I protested, Whod want him? Hes fifty-two, bad back, dodgy stomach

Please! Love doesnt care about indigestion, especially for a midlife crisis. Rented a flat, dont call for a monthclassic. He wants to test-drive life with her without burning bridges. In case she cant cook stew or refuses to wash his socks. Keeping you as a safety net. If it works, divorce; if not, flowers and I always loved only you.

Her words landed heavy. I tried to reject the idea, defend David. But deep down, I knew: Kate was right. His new phone password. Late nights at the office. That new shirt he bought himselfeven though he detested shopping.

So what do I do? I managed, a hot anger beginning to displace the grief.

What do you do? Live! Kate slammed the table. And live well. Book a hairdresser. Buy yourself something nice. And stop waiting for his call like rain from the heavens. Whose flat is this?

Mine. Mum left it to me, I answered automatically. Hes still registered at his mumsnever got around to sorting the paperwork.

Exactly. You hold the cards. Dont sit here sobbing; he thinks youre pining away waiting. Surprise him.

Long after Kate left, I drifted through the flat, switching on lights, pausing in the bathroom where his shaving cream still sat. I tossed it straight in the bin, relishing the dull thud of it landinga first shot in a new battle.

The next two weeks were odd. I dragged myself back to work. Colleagues noticed Id lost weight, looked drawn, but blamed the season. I started tuning into the small things: the flat stayed tidier without David. No more crumbs on the worktop, dirty jeans on chairs. The fridge contents lasted longer, and I needed only a salad for supper. Evenings were mineknitting came out again, a scarf started during a drama on TV.

The silence stopped feeling oppressive, turning almost soothing. No one muttering about politics, no one flipping channels as I watched my films.

But nagging doubts lingeredmaybe Kate misjudged? What if he really was alone and thinking of me?

All was answered that Friday. On my way to buy more wool, I saw them.

David stood outside the jewellery shopbeside him, a woman barely thirty, in a bright red coat. David smiled at her with that tender look he once reserved for me. They chatted, he gesturing to a bracelet, both laughing. They looked blissful.

Heart hammering, I shrank out of sight, watching as my spark-gone husband cuddled another around the waist and led her away.

Something inside me died, and something elsecold, steelywas born.

I didnt confront them. I didnt stalk or watch. I turned for the car park, drove home in calm silence.

First thing, I pulled out the flats deeds, all named to me. The transfer from Mum. Only my and the kids names in the registry; Davids always said, No need for fuss, Im down at Mums, we live together anyway.

I found a locksmith online.

Hello, I need the locks changed. Yes, I have the deeds. How soon? In an hour? Perfect.

A stocky chap in blue overalls came promptly, only pausing to check which type I wanted.

The best youve got, I said. Something he wont open, even with an old key.

Understood, miss. Ill fit a five-lever British Standard. Even a professional burglar would struggle, never mind your chap with a duplicate.

The whir of his drill was music. As the old barrel hit the mat with a soft clunk, it felt like the old hurt, my old dependency, was being drilled right out of my life.

When he finished, he handed me a gleaming set of new keys. I locked the door: click, click, click, click. Four turns. My own fortress.

I gathered Davids leftover things: winter coats, shoes, fishing rods from the balcony, his toolkit. All bundled in big black bin bags. Five bulging sacks, lined up by the door in the common hall.

A week ticked by. No word from David. Testing feelings mustve got extended with his new muse. I was calm now. I filed for divorce online with the click of a buttoneasier than Id ever imagined.

On Saturday morning, the doorbell shrilled. Again and again.

I peered through the spyhole. There stood David, looking rather worse for wear, but quietly confident, with a bag of groceries and a bunch of carnations in hand.

I didnt open. I leant my head against the cool metal and waited.

He tried his key. Scrape. Wouldnt fit. Push; no luck. Out, in, blow on itno dice.

Emma! Emma, you in? Whats happened to the lock?

I stayed silent.

Emma, let me in! I saw your car! Whats this about?

His fists thudded the door.

What, is this a joke? Look, Im here! Flowers! We agreed a month, but I missed you! Im back!

I took a long breath and said clearly through the door, Your things are in black bags to the left. Take them and go.

A pause. Shuffle. Hed found the bags.

Have you lost your mind?! Whats this? Open the door! Im your husband, Ive a right to my home!

Its not your home, David, I replied calmly. Its mine. Youre not even on the lease, remember? You wanted to see what it was like living apartwell, now you can. Permanently.

You what, youve changed the locks? How dare you! Ill call the police, the fire brigadesomeonell break this door down for me!

Call who you like. Show them proof of address. Tell them how you left your wife to test your feelings with another woman. Im sure theyll be sympathetic.

What woman?! Youre mad! Ive been on my own!

I saw you both at the shopping centre, David. Jewellery shop. Red coat. Stop lying. Experiment over. Result: failed.

Muttering and cursing erupted on the landing. He booted the door.

Youll regret this! Alone at forty-five, wholl want you? I came back out of pity! Out of decency! Ill take you for half of everything! The car, the allotment!

Well split the car and the allotment through the court, I replied, voice steady. Youre not touching this flat. Go, Davidor Ill call and tell the police a strange man is violently trying to break into my home.

He ranted and raved, kicked the bags, dropped the limp flowers. Then, resigning, he dragged the bags away.

Vile woman! came the parting cry. Absolute witch!

The lift whirred, the bags and his threats faded, and all was quiet at last.

I slid down the door and sat. My legs shook, tears rolledrelief at last seeping out.

I sat there ten minutes before getting up, splashing cold water on my face. In the mirror looked back a tired woman, but her chin was high.

My phone chimedKate: Well? How did our Casanova fare? I saw his car parked outside.

I replied: Hes gone. Locks work a treat.

Brilliant! she texted back straight away. Proud of you! Ill be round with cake tonighttime to celebrate your new life!

In the kitchen, I put on the kettle. Through the peephole, I saw the carnations abandoned on the mat. It was just as well I hadnt opened the door: after twenty years, he never remembered I hated carnations. It was tulips I always loved.

A month later, the divorce was settled; the kids were grown, so it passed without fuss. We had to sell the allotment and split the proceeds, the car went to David, who paid me out (all of which immediately funded a holiday).

Soon after, I heard from mutual friends that Davids new flame had left him as soon as she realised he no longer had a nice flat and was about to lose much more. His rental flat was too much for him, so he ended up back at his mothers little council flat on the edge of town, where hed always kept his name registered.

I barely cared. Id just come back from Turkeymy first solo holiday in decades. I came home bronzed and with a new dressand perhaps the beginnings of a holiday romance with a dashing German chap. Nothing serious, but a timely reminder that I was still an attractive woman.

One evening, as I returned from work, David was waiting on a bench outside our block. Thinner now, dishevelled in a creased windcheater.

Emma? he called out as I passed, slowing my steps.

David, I nodded without stopping.

Can we talk? He stepped toward me, looking desperate. I was an idiot. I messed up. Can we try again? Twenty yearsdoesnt that count for something?

I looked at him, feeling absolutely nothingnot anger, not pity, just emptiness. Like a stranger on the street asking for spare change.

Twenty years arent nothing, I agreed. But the past belongs in the past. Ive started a new life, David, with no room for old mistakes. Or for you.

But Ive changed! Ive seen the light!

So have I. I smiled. And Im not stifled on my own. I feel free.

I jingled my new set of keys and let myself in, the intercom buzzing me through. The door swung shut, shutting out David and his late regrets.

As the lift carried me up, I thought about redecorating the hallsomething light, maybe peach. And buying an armchair for my knitting. Life was just beginning, and the keys belonged firmly in my own hands.