La vida

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

La vida

Heating Up a Marriage: When Victor Suggested an Open Relationship, Elena Surprised Herself—And Him—with Her Answer, Sparking a Journey from Betrayal to Self-Discovery and New Beginnings

Warming Up the Marriage Listen, Anna what if we tried an open marriage? Richard ventured, his tone uncomfortable. What?

La vida

Just a Little Longer to Endure: A Story of Sacrifice, Family Ties, and Finally Choosing Yourself

Here, Mum. This is for Emilys next term. Mary laid the envelope gently on the faded oilcloth covering

La vida

Run Away from Him: A Gripping Tale of Friendship, Control, and a Chilling Secret in Modern London

Run From Him Oh, hello, friend! Julia plopped down onto the stool next to Emily, her tone bright, but

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The Unwanted Yet Indispensable Granddaughter: When Nana Solovyov Tries to Claim the Little Princess, But Mum and Her Connections Stand in the Way

There, look, thats her! Im certain of it! whispered an elegant woman to her rather simple-looking companion.

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Keep Your Distance! I Never Promised to Marry You—And Besides, How Do I Even Know That Child Is Mine? Maybe She Isn’t Mine at All? That’s what Victor—who was only in their village on business—told a stunned Valentina. She couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. Was this really the same Victor who had once declared his love and treated her like a princess? Once, he’d called her “Valyusha,” promised her the world, but now he looked like a sullen stranger… Valentina wept for a week after waving Victor goodbye forever. At thirty-five, plain and resigned to the unlikelihood of finding happiness, she made the decision to become a mother. When her time came, Val—now on her own—gave birth to a noisy little girl she named Mary. Mary grew into a quiet, undemanding child, almost as if she knew that crying would get her nowhere… Val cared for her daughter, made sure she was fed, clothed, and had toys—but real motherly affection seemed absent. A hug, a cuddle, a walk—these simple acts rarely happened. Little Mary would reach for her mother, but Val would brush her aside: busy, tired, a headache… Maternal instinct just never woke in her. When Mary was seven, something unexpected happened—Val met a man and even brought him home! The village gossips were shocked: “Has Val lost her mind?” Her new partner, Igor, was an outsider, didn’t have steady work, and nobody really knew anything about him. Maybe a rogue… Val didn’t listen to the whispers. She seemed to know this was her last chance at happiness. Soon, though, opinions shifted: Igor, it turned out, was handy and kind. He fixed the porch, patched the roof, raised the fallen fence—every day he improved their tired old house. People started to seek his help, and he’d tell them, “If you’re poor or old, I’ll help for free. Otherwise, pay with cash or food.” Sometimes money, sometimes homemade jam or eggs or ham. Val had a vegetable patch but no livestock—until Igor, and soon their fridge had fresh cream and milk. Val even softened—she smiled more, became gentle, and started showing Mary little acts of love. Mary, now in school, thrived under Igor’s quiet care: he cooked, told her stories, bandaged her knees, taught her to fish, and bought her first bike. At Christmas, he gave her white skates and carved a patch of ice on the river for her to learn. He held her hand every time she fell. She learned to stand and glide, and one day, overjoyed, she hugged him and whispered, “Thank you, Dad…” Igor brushed away tears so she wouldn’t see. Even as Mary grew up and moved to the city, he was always there—at her graduation, carrying groceries to her student flat, walking her down the aisle at her wedding, and cradling his grandchildren with boundless love. When Igor was gone, at his graveside, Mary and her mother mourned deeply. Throwing a handful of earth and sighing, Mary whispered, “Goodbye, Dad… You were the best father in the world. I’ll always remember you.” And in her heart, Igor lived on—not as stepfather, not as ‘Uncle,’ but as her true Dad. Because a Father isn’t always the one who gives life, but the one who raises you, who shares your sorrows and joys, and who’s always by your side. A Touching True-Life Story: Thank you for reading—don’t forget to follow for more incredible stories!

Keep away from me! I never promised to marry you! And really, how am I to know whose child that is?

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Turning Up the Heat on Marriage: When Victor Suggested an Open Relationship to Elena, He Thought It Would Spice Things Up, But Instead It Unraveled 25 Years Together and Forced Them Both to Rethink Love, Freedom, and Self-Worth in Middle Age

Warmed Up the Marriage Lucy, listen… Richard said carefully, fiddling with his mug. What do you

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“No, Mum, There’s No Need to Visit Just Now – The Journey’s Long, You’re Not Getting Any Younger, and You’ve Got Plenty to Do in the Garden: My Son’s Words Broke My Heart When All I Wanted Was to Meet My Daughter-in-law at Last, But in the End, I Wasn’t Even Welcome at Their Wedding, and Now I Don’t Know if He Deserves the Wedding Gift I Saved Up For Him”

No, Mum, you definitely dont need to come up right now. Just think about it its such a long journey

La vida

The Right to Choose

Natalie woke up a minute before her alarm. The room was still dim, the February gloom leaking through

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Hang On Just a Little Longer “Mum, that’s for Anna’s next term.” Maria set the envelope on the battered vinyl tablecloth. A hundred thousand. She’d counted the money three times—at home, on the bus, at the doorstep. Each time, exactly enough. Elena put her knitting aside and peered over her glasses at her daughter. “Maria, you look awfully pale. Shall I make you a cuppa?” “No thank you, Mum. I can only stay a minute—I have to make my second shift.” The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought her mother every month. Four grand a bottle, which lasted three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups. “Anna was so thrilled when she heard about the work placement at the bank,” Elena took the envelope as carefully as if it were fragile glass. “She says there are good prospects.” Maria said nothing. “Tell her it’s the last money for her studies.” The final term. Maria had kept this up for five years. Every month—an envelope for Mum, a transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand, subtracting bills, medicine, groceries for Mum, Anna’s university costs. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat that was six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own flat. Once, Maria had wanted to visit London. Just for a weekend. To see the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. She’d even begun saving—then Mum had her first serious health scare and all the savings went on doctors. “You ought to take a break, love,” Elena stroked her hand. “You look done in.” “I will, Mum. Soon.” Soon—as in, when Anna found a job. When Mum stabilised. When she could finally breathe and think of herself. Maria had been saying “soon” for five years. Anna graduated as an accountant in June—a first, no less. Maria went to the ceremony, taking leave from work, and watched her little sister cross the stage in her new dress (a present from Maria, naturally) and thought: that’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and Maria would finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. “You don’t get it, Maria,” Anna sat curled up on the sofa in fluffy socks. “I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts.” “Fifty thousand a year isn’t peanuts.” “Maybe not for you, but for me it is.” Maria clenched her jaw. She made forty-two on her main job. If she was lucky with extra shifts, another twenty. Sixty-two thousand a year, and lucky if she kept fifteen for herself. “Anna, you’re twenty-two. Time to start working somewhere.” “I will. Just not as some nobody in a dead-end office for fifty grand.” Elena fussed in the kitchen, banging pots—pretending not to hear. She always did when the daughters fought. She’d disappear, hide, and later—before Maria left—she’d whisper, “Don’t be cross with Anna, she’s young, she doesn’t understand.” Doesn’t understand. Twenty-two and still doesn’t understand. “I’m not immortal, Anna.” “Oh stop being dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money, is it? I’m just looking for a proper job.” Not asking. Technically—no. Mum did: “Maria, Anna could do with English lessons.” “Maria, Anna’s phone broke, she needs to job hunt.” “Maria, Anna would like a new coat, winter’s coming.” Maria sent the money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that’s always how it was: she shouldered the burden and everyone else treated it as a given. “I’ve got to go,” she stood up. “Night shift tonight.” “Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!” Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold, musty stairwell, smelling of damp and cats. Ten minutes to the bus. Then an hour’s ride. Then eight hours on her feet. Then, if she caught extra work, four more hours at the computer. Meanwhile Anna would be at home, browsing jobs, waiting for the universe to deliver her an ideal position—one that paid one-fifty a year and let her work from home. Their first big row broke out in November. “Are you doing anything at all?” Maria snapped after seeing Anna in the same position on the sofa as the week before. “Sent off even one application?” “Three. This month.” “Three applications? In a month?” Anna rolled her eyes and retreated into her phone. “You don’t understand the job market. It’s brutal now. You have to choose the right posts.” “What’s right—a job that pays you for lying about on the sofa?” Elena peered out, nervously rubbing her hands with a tea towel. “Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake…” “No, Mum,” Maria massaged her temples. Third day running of headaches. “Just tell me, why am I working two jobs and she’s not working at all?” “Maria, she’s young, she’ll find her way…” “When? In a year? Five? I was already working at her age!” Anna bristled. “Well, sorry, I don’t fancy ending up like you! Like a carthorse, always working and nothing else!” Silence. Maria grabbed her bag and left. On the bus home, she stared at the darkness and thought: a carthorse. So that’s how it looks from the outside. Mum called the next day, asking Maria not to be upset. “Anna didn’t mean it like that. She’s just going through a lot. Just hang on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon.” Just hang on. Mum’s favourite phrase. Hang on until Dad sorts himself out. Hang on until Anna grows up. Hang on until things get better. Maria had been hanging on all her life. Rows became routine. Every visit ended the same: Maria tried to get through to Anna, Anna got stroppy, Elena ran between them pleading for peace. Then Maria left, Elena rang to apologise, everything started again. “You have to understand, she’s your sister,” Mum said. “And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine.” “Maria…” In January, Anna rang first. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Maria! I’m getting married!” “What? To who?” “Dima. We’ve been dating three weeks. He’s… he’s perfect!” Three weeks. And getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, say at least get to know the guy—but she kept quiet. Maybe it would be a blessing. Anna would have a husband to support her, and Maria could finally exhale. That fragile hope lasted just until the family dinner. “I’ve got it all sorted!” Anna beamed. “Hotel reception for a hundred guests, live band, and I’ve found the perfect dress in Selfridges…” Maria lowered her fork. “And how much is all that?” “Well,” Anna gave a disarming smile, “About five, maybe six grand. But it’s a wedding, once in a lifetime!” “And who’s paying?” “Oh Maria, you know… Dima’s parents can’t help, their mortgage is huge. Mum’s nearly on the pension. You’ll probably need to get a loan.” Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Elena looked away. “You’re serious?” “Maria, it’s her wedding,” Mum spoke in that syrupy tone Maria knew from childhood. “Such an event, only once in a lifetime. You can’t skimp…” “You mean I should take a five-grand loan to pay for the wedding of someone who hasn’t even bothered to get a job?” “You’re my sister!” Anna slammed the table. “You have to!” “I have to?” Maria got up. Inside, everything went weirdly quiet and clear. “Five years. I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I’ve got no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight and haven’t bought new clothes for myself in eighteen months. “Maria, calm down…” began Elena. “No! Enough! I’ve supported you both for years, and you think it’s just my duty? That’s it! From now on, I’m living for myself!” She left, grabbing her coat just in time. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the cold. Inside, there was a strange warmth, as if she had finally shrugged off the bag of stones she’d carried all her life. Her phone buzzed with calls. Maria hung up and blocked both numbers. Half a year passed. Maria moved into her own small flat, something she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, long white nights. She bought a new dress. And then another. And shoes. She only heard about her family by accident, through a friend who worked near her mum. “So, is it true your sister’s wedding got cancelled?” Maria froze mid-sip of her coffee. “What?” “Oh, rumour is the groom bailed. Found out there was no money and legged it.” Maria drank her coffee. It was bitter, but somehow delicious. “No idea. We’re not in touch anymore.” That evening, sitting by the window in her new flat, Maria realised she felt no malice. Not a hint. Only a quiet, deep contentment—the contentment of someone who had finally stopped being a beaten carthorse…

Hold On a Little Longer Mum, this is for Janes next term. Mary placed the envelope onto the worn oilcloth