After Lily got a promotion at the bank, her whole demeanour changed. The once quiet and gentle woman became sharp-tempered and demanding. Her husband, Anthony, couldn’t understand it. “Where’s all this attitude coming from? Everything was fine before.” Lily nagged him about doing nothing at home—why was everything on her? The cooking, their son, the cleaning. But Anthony didn’t see the problem. “What’s there to do in a three-bed flat in Birmingham? The shelves are up, the taps don’t leak. Cooking? That’s not a man’s job.” He asked for soup once, hinting she should make it, only for her to snap back, “Peel the veg yourself—then I’ll cook.” He flared up. “Do it yourself! You’re the woman!”
Lily stayed late at work more often, their son now the last one picked up from nursery. Anthony felt bad for the boy, but go himself? What if they asked him to move a wardrobe or fix a pipe?
He grew bitter, muttering, “Why’d you even take that promotion? Should’ve stayed quiet—things would’ve been fine.” Lily calmly countered, “Then go back to the development team, get your own promotion, earn more—I’ll quit, cook soup, and stay home. But we can’t live off two salaries anymore. My mum helped before, now she’s got her own expenses.” Anthony scoffed. “Now she wants a new kitchen!”
Truth was, he had no ambition to climb the ladder. He saw his boss grinding with no weekends and thought, “No thanks. I do my hours—then home.” But the more Lily criticised him, the deeper his resentment grew. “Fine, if she wants to be the boss, let her see how lonely it gets.” He started staying late too, then began an affair with Vera from accounts. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was warm—soft-spoken, curvy, always bringing homemade cakes.
Vera had a young son, but Anthony didn’t mind. With her, he felt needed: cosy blankets, hot dinners, adoring looks. They met more often. Meanwhile, Lily’s mum started collecting their boy from nursery—Lily was swamped with a major project. Anthony smirked. “Good. She doesn’t cook, I don’t starve. Vera feeds me, praises me. Fair’s fair.” Except Vera had rules. If Anthony showed up empty-handed—no chocolates, perfume, or cash for “something nice”—she cooled. Dinner got plainer, affection measured.
It unsettled him, but he shrugged it off. “So what? She doesn’t want love—just attention and a bit of cash. Wait till Lily finds out I’m leaving—then she’ll change her tune.” But when Vera, deadpan, asked for a fur coat, he knew the game was up.
He stormed home, waited for Lily, then scowled.
“Lily, enough. I’m a man! I want dinner, a tidy house, fresh socks! You’re home before me—why no soup? Or is laundry too hard?”
Silently, Lily took off her coat, dropped her bag, and sighed.
“Is that all?”
“No!” he boomed. “I’m leaving! For a woman who values me! My bags are packed—done! Live alone!”
Lily nodded. “Good. Go. Sick of living with a lazy whiner. Leave the flat. I paid the mortgage. A solicitor will confirm—you never put a penny in.”
It hit him like boiling water. No begging? No tears? He expected her to cling, beg him to stay. Instead—cold logic.
Fuming, he grabbed his bag and drove to Vera’s. He knocked, chest puffed. “Love, I’m yours now. For good!” She opened the door, scanned him up and down, and folded her arms.
“Who said you could move in? I’ve got a kid, a rented flat, a tiny wage. You’re not a solution—you’re a drain. Can’t pay? Piss off.”
The door slammed. He stood on the landing, clutching his bag, pride shattered, hands empty. Unwanted. By his wife, his mistress. For the first time in years—truly alone.
