My Husband Suggested Taking a Break to Test Our Feelings, So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, I think we’ve become strangers to each other. The routines have just swallowed us up. I’ve been thinking… maybe we need to live apart for a while.” Mike said it as casually as if he was suggesting we buy wholemeal bread instead of white for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his beef stew, dunking a bit of bread as he spoke. Helen froze at the cooker, ladle in hand, hot gravy trickling down her wrist, but she barely noticed the burn. It was as if someone had switched on a vacuum cleaner in her ears—everything was a blur. “What do you mean—apart?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady as she put the ladle back in the pot, afraid her weak fingers would drop it. “Are you heading off on a business trip?” “No, not a business trip,” Mike grimaced, finally glancing her way. He looked tired, slightly annoyed, the look of someone forced to explain obvious things to a slow pupil. “I’m talking about a break. About testing our feelings. You know, the spark’s gone. I come home and feel… suffocated. It’s always the same: work, dinner, TV, sleep. I want to know if I’m really drawn to you, or if it’s just… habit.” Helen slowly sat down opposite him, twenty years of marriage flashing before her eyes. Two grown-up kids off at university in distant cities. The mortgage paid off three years ago. The home renovations they did themselves, spending weekends stripping wallpaper. And now this: “suffocated”? “And where are you planning to stay while you… test your feelings?” she asked quietly. “I’ve rented a flat. Just for a couple of months. It’s close to work, so I can avoid the traffic,” he said, a little too quickly, as if rehearsed. “I’ve already started packing. My things are in the bedroom.” So he’d had this planned for a while. While she’d been considering what bulbs to plant at the allotment this spring, or picking out a new jumper for him in the sales, he was flat-hunting. Paying deposits. Not saying a word. “And my opinion in all this?” Helen looked at her husband, searching his face for the young man she’d once married. Instead, a stranger sat there—a greying, slightly pudgy man avoiding her eyes. “Helen, don’t start with the drama,” Mike pushed away his spoon. Appetite gone, apparently. “I’m not suggesting divorce. Not yet. Just a pause. Loads of couples do it these days. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t live without each other and have a second honeymoon. Or maybe… well, at least we’ll get some honest answers.” He stood up, tossed his napkin on the table, and went off to the bedroom. Helen listened to him opening wardrobes, rustling plastic bags. She sat in the kitchen, staring at the cooling stew—his favourite, with beans, just as he liked it—feeling a vast, icy emptiness grow inside her. The rest of the evening was a daze. Mike bustled around, ferrying bags to the hallway. He took the laptop, the coffee machine (which had been a gift from her workmates, but which he used the most), and his winter clothes. “I’m off,” he said, standing at the door in his jacket, looking both triumphant and a little guilty. “Don’t call me for now. Let’s agree: a month of radio silence, to keep the experiment clean.” “What if there’s a burst pipe?” Helen asked, hearing the absurdity in her own voice. “Call a plumber. You’re a grown woman, you’ll cope. I’ll keep my keys, just in case I need to pop in for something urgent. Okay, that’s it. Don’t miss me too much.” The door clunked shut. The lock clicked. Helen was alone in a flat that suddenly felt oppressively big and terrifyingly quiet. For three days she did nothing but lie in bed, only getting up for water or the bathroom. She felt like her life was over, endlessly replaying the past months in her mind. Was she too fussy about his socks? Had she put on too much weight? Gotten too boring? On the fourth day, her sister Sarah arrived, blowing in like a whirlwind with bags of groceries and a bottle of wine. Seeing Helen—tear-streaked, in her dressing gown, with greasy hair—she simply shook her head. “Right, love, this won’t do. Get up, have a shower. I’ll slice the cheese.” An hour later, wine glass in hand, Helen recounted her conversation with Mike. Sarah listened, eyes narrowed. “A ‘test of feelings’, was it? ‘Suffocated’ is he? Helen, you’re the savviest woman I know—bookkeeper brain, always doing the maths. Yet here you can’t put two and two together. He’s got someone else.” “Oh, don’t be silly,” Helen waved her off. “Who’d want him? He’s fifty-two, has a bad back and indigestion.” “Darling, please! Indigestion never got in love’s way, especially during a mid-life crisis. ‘Rented a studio’, ‘don’t call for a month’—it’s textbook. He wants to try living with her, without burning his bridges. Maybe she can’t cook stew or refuses to do his laundry. You’re his backup plan. If it works out there—you get divorce papers. If not, he comes crawling back with flowers saying he realised you’re the only one he loves. Either way, be prepared.” Sarah’s words hit Helen like heavy stones. She tried to deny it, defend Mike, but deep down she knew her sister was right. The changed phone password, nights working late, new shirt bought without moaning. “So what do I do?” Helen asked, realising that anger was slowly displacing despair. “What do you do? You live!” Sarah thumped the table. “And live well. Get a haircut. Buy yourself something nice. And stop waiting for his call like it’s a winning lottery ticket. The flat’s whose, anyway?” “Mine. My childhood home,” Helen said automatically. “He’s still technically registered at his mum’s—we never got round to all the paperwork.” “Even better. Means you hold the cards. Don’t sit around drowning in tears. Surprise him.” After Sarah left, Helen wandered the flat, unable to sleep, switching on all the lights. In the bathroom, she found his shaving cream. On impulse, she chucked it in the bin. The hollow thud sounded like the first shot in a personal war. The next two weeks were strange. Helen forced herself back to work. Colleagues noticed she’d lost weight and seemed down, blaming it on the spring blues. But Helen started seeing things she’d ignored before. Without Mike the flat was cleaner. Nobody left crumbs on the side or draped jeans over chairs. The fridge stayed full and she barely needed to cook—salad was enough most nights. Her evenings were her own. She rediscovered her love for knitting, started a scarf while watching Netflix. The silence stopped being scary, turning soothing instead. No one droned on about politics, no one switched the channel when she was enjoying a film. Yet doubts remained. What if Sarah was wrong? What if Mike really was alone, missing her? The answer arrived one Friday evening. Helen, heading to buy some new wool, rode the escalator in the shopping centre—and spotted them. Mike stood by a jewellery shop window, a young woman—no more than thirty, bright red coat—clinging to his arm. He grinned at her with the same smile he’d given Helen, twenty years ago. He gestured towards a bracelet and the woman laughed, tossing back her hair. They looked utterly content. Helen stepped behind a tall man. Her heart hammered, thudding in her temples. She watched her husband—supposedly ‘testing his feelings’—cuddle someone else and lead her out, arm around her waist. Something inside Helen finally died. And at the same moment, something new was born—cold, strong, unbreakably calm. She didn’t cause a scene or follow them. She simply went home. First, she fetched her flat’s deeds. Her name. The gift letter from her mother. Only her and her children listed on the electoral roll. Mike still registered at his mum’s, always brushing off the paperwork as a hassle. She found a locksmith online. “Hello, I need to change the locks urgently… Yes, I’ve got the deeds. When can you come? In an hour? Perfect.” The locksmith, burly and businesslike, arrived promptly. “Best lock you’ve got,” Helen said. “I want it secure. Even if someone’s got an old key, they can’t get in.” “Understood, madam. We’ll fit a Yale anti-snap. Burglar-proof—never mind your husband with a copy.” The drill’s whine was music to Helen’s ears. Old metal shavings fell on the mat as the old lock clattered to the floor. With every turn of the screwdriver she felt more of her old pain, old dependence, old ‘making herself convenient’ falling away too. When the locksmith left, handing over a set of shiny new keys, she locked the door. Once, twice, three, four turns—four solid walls of her new fortress. She gathered up the rest of Mike’s things—winter coats, shoes, fishing tackle, tools—into giant bin bags and left them outside her door in the shared hallway. A week passed. Nothing from Mike—he was busy ‘testing his feelings’ with his new flame, seemingly. Helen filed for divorce online. Surprisingly easy. The doorbell rang one Saturday morning—insistent, urgent. Helen peered through the spyhole. Mike, looking a bit dishevelled but rather self-satisfied, holding a shopping bag and a bunch of carnations. Helen didn’t answer. She pressed her forehead to the cold door and waited. Mike tried his key. Metal scraped metal—blocked. He tried again, then again, finally examining the key in confusion. “Helen! Helen, you home? What’s up with the lock?” She stayed silent. “Helen, open up! I know you’re in! Your car’s out front!” He started banging. “Enough with the jokes! I’m back! With flowers! We agreed a month, but I came early—I missed you!” Helen took a deep breath and said loud and clear through the door: “Your stuff’s in the black bags by the door. Take it and go.” There was silence as Mike digested this. Then the sound of shuffling—he’d found the bin bags. “Have you lost your mind?” his voice turned shrill. “What are you playing at? Open up! I’m your husband! I have a right to come in!” “This isn’t your home anymore, Mike,” Helen answered calmly. “It’s my flat. You’re not even on the tenancy. You wanted to live separately. Fine. Now you live separately. For good.” “You… you changed the locks? How could you? I’ll call the police! Fire brigade! Break down the door!” “Go on,” Helen said. “Show them your proof of address. Tell them about your midlife experiment. I’m sure the local copper will have a laugh.” “What woman? You’re imagining things! I was living alone!” “I saw you at the shopping centre, Mike. Jewellery shop. Red coat. Stop lying. The experiment’s over. Result: negative.” Swearing erupted. He kicked the door. “You’ll regret this! You’ll end up alone, you silly cow! Who’s going to want you at forty-five? I was doing you a favour, coming back! I’ll sue you for half the house! The car! The holiday home!” “We’ll split the car and summer cottage in court, like adults,” Helen replied. “But you’re not getting the flat. Go, Mike, or I’ll call the police and report an aggressive intruder.” He stomped and yelled, banged and cursed, flung his wilted carnations at the door, and eventually dragged his bags to the lift with a final “Cow!” Helen slid down the door until she sat on the floor, legs trembling. Her tears, when they came, were hot and cathartic—not of grief, but release. After ten minutes, she washed her face and looked in the mirror. The woman looking back had tired eyes, but her chin was lifted with pride. Her phone pinged: a message from Sarah—“So, did our Romeo make an appearance? I saw his car out front.” Helen typed back: “He’s been. Took his things. New locks are perfect.” “Good girl! I’m proud of you! I’ll pop over with cake later—we’ll celebrate your new start.” Helen went to the kitchen, put the kettle on. Out in the hallway, she could see those unwanted carnations through the spyhole. How typical: after twenty years, he still didn’t remember she hated carnations. She liked tulips. A month later, the divorce went through quickly—grown-up children, no drama. The holiday home sold and split, the car went to Mike (with compensation to Helen, which paid for a holiday.) Mike’s “muse” dumped him as soon as it became clear there was no comfy flat and a messy property split on the cards. The rented studio was too expensive, so he moved back in with his mum, to his old council flat on the estate. Helen heard all this third-hand and didn’t care. She’d just returned from her first solo holiday in Turkey; she’d bought a bright new dress and—perhaps—a flirtation with a dashing German. Nothing serious, but enough to remind her she was still a vibrant woman. One evening, returning from work, a familiar voice called out by the entrance. “Helen?” Mike, thinner now and crumpled in a shabby windbreaker, stood by the bench looking battered. “Hi,” she said, slowing but not stopping. “Helen, can we talk? I was stupid. I made a mistake. The devil got into me. My mum nags me every day—I miss our home, your stew… Can’t we start over? We can’t just throw away twenty years…” Helen looked at him—and realised she felt… nothing. No anger, no hurt, no pity. Just emptiness. Like a passer-by asking for spare change. “You can’t just throw away twenty years,” she agreed. “But the past belongs to the past. I’ve got a new life now, Mike. No room for old mistakes. Or for you.” “But I’ve changed! I’ve learnt my lesson!” “So have I,” she smiled. “I’ve discovered I’m not suffocated alone. I’m free.” She took out her new, gleaming keys and walked confidently to the entrance. The intercom chimed, letting her inside. The door closed behind her, shutting out Mike and his regrets. Riding up in the lift, Helen thought—maybe new wallpaper in the hallway, something bright and peachy. And a comfortable new armchair for her evenings in. Life was just beginning, and the keys to that life were in her own hands. Did you enjoy the story? Subscribe and give it a thumbs-up to catch more life tales. Leave a comment—did Helen do the right thing?

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 13 minViews 1

My dear Caroline, dont you think weve grown quite, well strange to each other? Jonathan mumbled as if he were merely swapping out cheddar for Red Leicester. He didnt even look up from his steak and kidney pie, cutting absently through the thick, soft pastry. Caroline stood at the cooker, ladle frozen mid-air, hot soup trickling down her wrist with a sting she barely noticed. The air hummed, as though a double-decker roaring past was suddenly inside the kitchen.

What are you saying separately? she echoed, steadying her voice. She lowered the ladle into the pot before she dropped it right on her toes. Is this Are you being sent away with work?

No, nothing of the sort, Jonathan grimaced, finally meeting her eyes. He looked exhausted, a little cross, as if forced to explain algebra to a stubborn child. Im saying we should try a break. Give our feelings a check-up, if you like. Its just so stifling. Day in, day out, same job, same dinner, same tele, straight to bed. I want to know if I really care about you, or if its only habit.

Caroline folded gently onto a nearby chair. Twenty years of marriage. Two grown-up children at uni, scattered across Britain. The mortgage paid off three years ago. DIY weekends, peeling wallpaper, a little argument about raspberry jam every Christmas. And now stifling?

Where are you planning to stay, then, during this check-up? she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Ive let a little bedsit for a couple of months. Not far from the office saves me sitting in the M25s works every morning, he answered too readily, as if hed rehearsed all this. Ive packed most of my bits, ready in the bedroom.

So hed had this in mind for a while. While shed been pondering which climbing roses to plant at the allotment or what scarf to buy for his birthday, he was trawling for flats, arranging deposits, and keeping mum.

Dont I get a say? Caroline fixed him with a stare, searching for a hint of the reckless young man shed married. But all she saw was a stranger, greyer, uncertain, not meeting her gaze.

Caroline, dont be dramatic, Jonathan put his fork down. Perhaps hed lost his appetite after all. Im not filing for divorce. Not yet. Its a pause its positively normal now, therapists enthuse over them. Maybe well rediscover ourselves, have a second honeymoon. Or if not, at least well know.

He got up, tossed his napkin on the table, and disappeared into the bedroom. Caroline sat there, staring at the cooling soup his favourite, with pearl barley, as hed asked feeling as if the kitchen were hollow and filled with icy mist.

That evening drifted by, thick and senseless. Jonathan marched about, shuttling bags to the hallway. He nicked the laptop, his favourite coffee machine (her colleagues gift, but his possession all the same), and the jumpers shed just washed.

Well, Im off, he said at the front door, slightly ceremonial, slightly sheepish. Dont call me lets agree, a months radio silence. To keep things pure.

What if the pipes burst? Caroline blurted, immediately feeling foolish.

Ring a plumber! Youre not helpless. Ill keep my keys, just in case I need to pop in for something important. See you around. Dont pine.

The door thudded; the lock snapped. Suddenly Caroline was left alone in a flat that felt twice its old size, and three times as silent.

For three days she lay in bed, surfacing only for water or the bathroom. Her mind spun through recent months: Wasnt she too quick to nag about the socks? Or had she let herself go? Had life grown too uneventful?

On the fourth day, her sister Katherine came bursting in, arms loaded with Waitrose bags and a bottle of wine. She took one look at Caroline, red-eyed and dressing-gowned, and shook her head.

Well, this simply wont do. Shower, now. Ill sort the cheddar.

An hour later, with wine in one hand and a cracker in the other, Caroline poured out Jonathans entire speech. Katherine listened, eyes narrowed.

Time apart to test his feelings? He says hes suffocating? Caroline, youre sharp as a tack with numbers, and you cant see whats staring you in the face? Hes found a woman.

Caroline spluttered, waving her off. Dont be daft! Hes fifty-two, bad back, funny stomach whod take him?

Oh, stop it! A dodgy stomach never derailed romance, especially with a midlife crisis. Rented a flat, dont call me? Its textbook. He wants to play house with her, but keep you in reserve, in case she cant poach an egg or finds his snoring a deal-breaker. If things flop with her, hell come back all rose-in-hand, and if not well, off he trots for good.

Katherines words dropped into Carolines mind like boulders. She wanted to argue, but deep down, she recognised the truth: the phone passcode hed changed last month, the overtime, the new shirt he bought for himself.

What do I do? Carolines voice trembled, but now anger chased away her despair.

What do you do? You get on with it! Katherine banged the table. Treat yourself to a haircut. Buy something ridiculous. And for heavens sake, stop waiting for Mr Off-on-a-break to call. Who does this flat belong to?

Mine. My parents Technically, Jonathans still registered with his mum. We never bothered changing it.

Perfect. So legally, youre queen bee. Dont wallow. Surprise him.

After Katherine left, Caroline wandered the flat, switching on every light. In the bathroom, she found Jonathans old shaving cream. She lobbed the tube straight in the bin; the thud rang out like the start of an odd, personal revolution.

For two weeks, life tiptoed forward, oddly. Caroline summoned the nerve to go back to work. Her colleagues noticed the dark circles and let it pass as a spot of vitamin D deficiency. She meanwhile discovered, without Jonathan, that crumbs no longer appeared by magic, no one slung jeans across her armchair, and a salad sufficed for tea. She started knitting again, after ages, click-clacking away on a scarf during her soaps.

Silence, once hollow, was now restoring. No one muttered about politics or seized the remote during her favourite films.

Yet, doubt lingered. What if Katherine had it wrong? What if he really was alone, seeking answers?

All came clear one Friday, as Caroline nipped into the shopping centre to buy more wool. Going up the escalator, she saw them.

Jonathan hovered by a jewellers window. Clinging to his arm was a slip of a woman in her early thirties, coat popping with colour. Jonathan beamed at her, that familiar twinkle she hadnt seen in decades. He gestured at a bracelet, the girl laughed, head thrown back. They looked absolutely, heartbreakingly happy.

Caroline shrank behind a broad man in a raincoat. Her heart pounded in her temples as she watched her husband, the man whod declared himself short of spark, who needed space, wrap his arm around anothers waist.

Something cold and unyielding bloomed inside her, just as something else withered and fell away.

She didnt chase after them or demand a scene. She turned, a swallow of indignation, and went home.

First thing, she dug out the flats paperwork: title deed in her name, a gift deed from her mum, register showing only her and the children. Jonathan had always waved off the papers: Im on Mums books, whats it matter?

Caroline looked up a locksmith. Hello, I need my main door lock replaced, please. Yes, I have documents. How soon? An hour? Brilliant.

The locksmith, stocky in blue overalls, worked quickly, asking only a few practical questions.

Give me the best, Caroline said. Something no old key will touch.

Understood, madam. Ill fit a Chubb, four turns. No ones getting past one of these.

The rattle of the drill was music. Metal filings fell, the old lock thunked to the floor. It was as though old pain and useless hopes were being ditched alongside it.

Afterwards, she packed Jonathans winter coats, shoes, fishing rods from the balcony, and tools. She arranged them neatly in mammoth black rubbish sacks. There were five in total. She left them in the hallway outside her door.

A week passed. Not a peep from Jonathan. Clearly, testing his feelings with the youngster was taking longer than expected. Caroline had calmed by now. She even filed for divorce online. Surprisingly easy, really.

Saturday morning, the doorbell rang, insistent, indignant.

Caroline peered out. Jonathan, slightly rumpled, stood on the landing, food bag and carnations clutched awkwardly.

Caroline didnt answer. She pressed her forehead to the chilly door and waited.

He fumbled with his key. Nothing. Tried again, then again, with increasing force. He huffed, examined his key, blew on it, jabbed at the keyhole.

Caroline! he shouted, Caroline, are you in? Whats happened to the lock?

She stayed silent.

Caroline, open up! I know youre there! Cars in the drive!

He thumped the door.

Whats this, some sort of joke? Im here! With flowers! We said a month, but I missed you!

Caroline took a deep breath and called out, loudly, calmly, Your things are in the black bags to the left. Take them and go.

Silence. Jonathan mustve spotted the sacks.

Youve lost your mind! His voice rose an octave. What are you playing at? Let me in, this is my home!

It isnt, Jonathan. Carolines voice was steady. This is my flat. Youre not even registered here. You wanted to live separately. Now you can. Always.

He finally got it. Did you did you change the locks? How could you? Im calling the police! Ill call the fire brigade theyll break the door down!

Go ahead. Caroline was serene. Show them your registration. Tell them how you left me to test your feelings. Theyll have a good chuckle, Im sure.

What woman? Youre being ridiculous! I lived alone!

I saw you, Jonathan. The shopping mall, the jewellers, red coat. Stop lying. The experiments over. Results negative.

He let loose with some foul language. Kicked at the door.

Youll regret this! Youll be alone, you old fool! Wholl want you at forty-five? I came back out of kindness! Ill take you for every penny the car, the summer house!

Well split those in court, as the law demands, she replied. But youll never get this flat. Leave, Jonathan. Or Ill call the police about an aggressive stranger trying to break into my home.

He muttered, kicked at the bags, and finally flung the carnations at the floor. A clatter, a pause. Then the lift doors opened, more dragging, and finally, silence.

Caroline slid down the door, tears rolling not of grief, but of relief, pure and sharp.

After ten minutes, she rose, washed her face, and peered into her eyes in the mirror. There stared back a woman, tired but unbowed.

Her phone beeped. Katherine: So, has Casanova been and gone? Saw his car out front.

Caroline texted back, Gone. With his stuff. Locks work a treat.

Bravo! So proud! Ill pop by with cake, well toast your freedom.

Caroline put the kettle on. She spotted the battered carnations through the spyhole, dumped on the mat. Jonathan had never remembered in twenty years, shed never liked carnations. Shed always preferred tulips.

A month later, the divorce was sorted in a flash kids grown up, no faff. Split the summer house proceeds, Jonathan kept the car, paid her a tidy sum, which she promptly poured into a seaside holiday.

Turns out Jonathans new muse dropped him like a hot brick when she realised his plush flat was gone, and shed have to rough it in a rented bedsit. He hadnt the funds for the studio either, and ended up back with his mum in that shambolic outer London terrace, exactly where hed always been registered.

Caroline learnt about it from a friend-of-a-friend. She honestly couldnt care less. Shed just come back from Spain her first solo trip for years tanned, sporting a bright new dress, and possibly just a little casual flirting with a charming German. Nothing serious. But it made her remember she was, in fact, gorgeous.

One early evening, back from the office, she spotted him at the entrance.

Caroline? came the familiar, wheedling voice.

Jonathan hovered by the little bench, thinner now, looking battered.

Hello, she called lightly, hardly slowing.

Caroline, can we talk? he pleaded, shuffling forward. I made a mistake. Lost my head. Mums driving me mad. I miss your soup. Cant we start fresh? Twenty years cant just vanish

She looked at him and, with a sliver of amazement, felt nothing not fury, not sadness, not even pity. Only a wisp of emptiness, like one feels for a panhandler asking for coppers.

Youre right, you cant erase twenty years, she said. But the past should stay behind. Ive got a new life, Jonathan. It doesn’t include old mistakes or you.

But Ive changed! Ive learnt!

So have I, she smiled. Ive realised its not stifling, being alone. Its freedom.

With that, she jingled her new, shining keys and strode toward the entry. The intercom beeped, the door buzzed, closing off Jonathan and all his late-regret.

In the lift, Caroline pondered redecorating the hallway perhaps a peachy shade, and a new, comfy chair for her knitting. Life was only just cracking open, and the keys to it jingled securely in her hand.