April 26
I’m still standing in the hallway, two grocery bags heavy in my hands, the house key clinking uselessly in the lock—I didn’t even manage to shut the front door behind me. Inside the sacks are potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a bag of buckwheat on special, and three plain, sugar‑free yoghurts for Charlie – the boy only tolerates the white ones. My mind is already racing: will I have time to defrost the meat, or will I fling it straight into the pan as a frozen slab and end up steaming it instead of frying it?
Dave is leaning against the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring his mug of instant coffee with three teaspoons of sugar. He never bothers to wash the dishes after himself.
“She’ll never find out,” he says, letting a splash of coffee escape the cup. “Just say we need to re‑register the lease, you sign, she’ll believe me. She’s like a wooden doll—no feeling, no character. The housekeeper is free of charge.”
He laughs, that familiar chuckle I heard in the garage when he was joking with his mates while I was washing up after their get‑together. The same laugh when little Charlie tumbled off his bike and I ran with a bottle of green antiseptic while Dave stood there saying, “What, you’re going to coddle him? Let him get up on his own.”
My ears ring, pressure building as if a storm were about to break. My fingers clutch the bag handles, the thin plastic digging into my palms until white lines appear. I set the groceries down slowly, pull out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen comes Dave’s muttering. He’s already arguing with John about fishing hooks and tomorrow’s trip to the lake. He always does that—spit out a venomous comment, then switch to idle chatter as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly a wooden thing.
I press the phone against the crack of the ajar door and stand there until he finishes his call with John and promises to “seal the deal next week”.
He hangs up, slams the receiver, and shuffles to the fridge in his slippers. I stop the recording, slide the phone into my coat pocket, gather the bags, and glide past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the frame.
A cold, sharp sting presses at the back of my throat—should I howl or bark like a wounded dog? Twenty‑four years of marriage. Charlie, school, university, his loans that I’ve been paying off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until the very end. His socks, the endless “Love, where’s my blue shirt?”. And now I’m the wooden wife. And there’s already a buyer lined up.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands, dusted with buckwheat flour. My wedding band glints faintly, worn thin. He bought it for me when we were still sharing a cramped flat and living off spaghetti with ketchup. I feel a sudden urge to fling it out the window, but I don’t. I take a deep breath, recalling Mum’s advice: “Emily, if someone hurts you, count to ten before you decide what to do.”
I count to twenty. Then I get up, splash my face with icy water, and pull an old notebook from the drawer. I find the contact number for the local council office—where I’d once completed my mother’s disability paperwork.
A female voice answers, explaining that a restriction on any registration action can be placed online, but it’s far safer to come in person. I tell her I’ll be there right away.
It’s about three in the afternoon. Dave is banging around the kitchen—probably frying an egg. I throw on my coat and head for the lift.
“Where are you off to?” he asks without turning, the skillet hissing behind him.
“Just to the shop for bread. Nothing for tonight’s dinner.”
“Right, and grab a pack of cigarettes for me too.”
The lift jolts as it descends. It isn’t fear that makes my stomach tumble, but the realization that for twenty‑four years I’ve never taken a step without his blessing. We used to pick wallpaper together, only for him to later mutter, “Beige is boring, we should have gone with green,” and I’d say nothing.
The council office is empty except for a young woman behind a window, eyes fixed on my papers.
“Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one—even with a power of attorney—can sell, gift, or exchange the flat,” she says, tapping the keyboard.
“Absolutely,” I reply.
She hits a few keys, and after fifteen minutes I’m handed a slip of paper. I tuck it into the inner pocket of my coat, the same pocket that holds the recording.
I return home with a loaf of bread and a pack of Dave’s favourite cigarettes. He’s sprawled on the sofa, eyes glued to an action film. I slip into the kitchen, switch on the kettle, watch the burnt remnants of yesterday’s scrambled eggs on the pan, and wash them away out of habit.
Around seven, the doorbell rings. Dave jumps up, pulls his T‑shirt over his head.
“Someone’s at the door. Put the kettle on, love, a nice guest is coming.”
I nod.
A man in his early fifties, dressed in a crisp coat and carrying a leather briefcase, steps into the hallway. Dave lights up, flashing a grin.
“Meet Mr. Simon Clarke, estate agent. We’re sorting out the flat.”
I emerge from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and glance at Dave’s smug expression.
“Dave, remember you were on the phone with John this afternoon?” I ask.
His smile falters, the grin sliding off like poorly pasted wallpaper.
“What? Just… what are you on about?”
“You called me a wooden wife, said you’d already found a buyer for my flat and that I wouldn’t know anything.”
A heavy silence settles. The agent shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Dave’s face turns a paling shade, his cheeks mottled with nervous sweat.
“What are you talking about, love?” he begins, but I raise a hand.
“Don’t. I heard everything. Here.”
I press play on my phone. Dave’s voice fills the room: “My wife is wooden… I’ve already found a buyer… she trusts me… the housekeeper is free…”
Simon steps back toward the door.
“Mr. Davies, you didn’t mention there were complications,” he says.
Dave looks at me as if I were a stranger.
“Did you record this? Were you spying on me?” he snaps.
“I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my own wages, so you, Charlie and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were bargaining away my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. My mother’s.”
He steps toward me, but I stay calm.
“Also today I was at the council office and placed a restriction on any transaction involving the flat unless I’m there in person. So your buyer—” I gesture at Simon—“can look elsewhere. This flat isn’t for sale any more.”
Simon hesitates, then says, “I suppose I’ll be on my way then. We’ll talk later, Mr. Davies. Sorry.”
He slips out the door.
We’re left alone. Dave stands in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish stranded on the shore.
“You’ve ruined everything! We had plans!” he exclaims.
“My plans were to have faith. You shattered it by calling me wooden. Wood burns, Dave. And I’ve burned enough.”
He collapses onto the sofa, pulling his head into his hands.
“Emily, I’m sorry. It slipped. I didn’t mean it. John pushed me…”
“John,” I say with a wry smile. “Always someone else to blame. Not you, who’s spent twenty‑four years living off my salary, drinking my tea, sleeping in my sheets, treating me like a piece of furniture.”
I take off my wedding band and place it on the coffee table.
“Tomorrow I’ll file for divorce. The flat stays with me—it’s my mother’s inheritance, you have no claim. Pack your things within a week. I’ll tell Charlie myself; he’s an adult now.”
“Emily…” he starts.
“No,” I cut him off. “You have no idea how light I feel. For once I’m not thinking about what to cook. I know I have a roof over my head, and I have myself.”
I retreat to the bedroom, close the door, and a buzz from my phone pops up—a message from a friend: “How was your day?”
My reply is swift: “Great. I’m no longer wooden.”
I wake at seven the next morning. Instead of hurrying to make tea for Dave, I stretch, pull on a robe, and brew coffee for myself—ground beans with a dash of cinnamon. Dave survives on instant coffee; I’ve always preferred the real thing.
He drags himself out of the bedroom, eyes the Turkish‑style pot in my hand.
“And me?”
“It’s time you find a new housekeeper, Dave. Sometimes even wooden things sprout leaves.”
I take a sip. The coffee is scorching hot, my hands still trembling, the cup clinks against my teeth. Yet it’s the most satisfying brew I’ve ever tasted, because this time I made it for me.
The doorbell rings. I set the cup down and answer. Standing on the doorstep is Simon Clarke, briefcase in hand, coat still immaculate but his expression uneasy.
“Sorry to come so early. Yesterday my client mentioned the flat was yours, but I wasn’t aware… I just wanted to offer my services, as the owner, should you ever decide to buy, sell or rent anything. Honest, no strings attached.”
I stare at him, then glance at Dave, whose face is twisted in frustration, and at the agent’s practiced smile.
“You know what, Simon? I’ll think about it. Not today. I’m buying a cat today, and perhaps a new frying pan.”
He nods, hands over his card, and leaves. Dave mutters something and disappears into the other room. I lean against the door, let out a soft laugh—quiet, almost inaudible. For the first time in years I’m laughing in my own hallway.
I finish my coffee with a smile, thinking of the name I’ll give the kitten: Daisy, after the little cat that lived with us as a child before Dad gave her away because “she shed everywhere”. Now Daisy will be mine, and no one will dare call a bit of fur a problem.
