**1st March, 2024**
I wasn’t sure she’d let me back in.
When Oliver came home from work, he dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and shuffled into the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked out of habit.
Charlotte didn’t even look up.
“Nothing. But that doesn’t matter. I spoke to the landlord today. Told her we’re moving out by the end of the month.”
Oliver froze.
“What? We agreed we haven’t found anywhere else yet.”
“Why bother looking?” She turned to him with a sharp smile. “We’re moving in… with your ex-wife. With Emily.”
He sank into a chair, stunned.
“Charlotte, have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all. You said half the flat’s still yours. We’ll save money, I’ve already found a nursery for Jacob nearby, and the shops are just round the corner.”
Oliver felt like the air had been punched from his lungs. He hadn’t felt in control of his life in years. Work paid less, the construction job he’d pinned his hopes on was delayed, and money was slipping through his fingers.
With Charlotte, things had been sour for a long time. She was younger, demanding, used to luxury. Once, it had seemed exciting. Now, it was exhausting.
He hesitated, but eventually called Emily.
“We’re in a bind. Need somewhere to stay for a couple of months.”
“It’s your flat too, Oliver. Of course, come over,” she replied calmly.
When they arrived, Charlotte scanned the place and wrinkled her nose.
“Bit dim,” she muttered, stomping through the rooms in her shoes. “It’ll do.”
Emily said nothing. But in the kitchen, she laid down rules.
“We take turns cleaning. Cook our own meals. Fridge is shared—but with separate shelves.”
Charlotte scoffed.
“We didn’t sign up to live by your rules!”
“And we didn’t sign up to run a boarding house,” Emily said evenly.
The next month was hell. Charlotte needled Emily, dropping hints for her to leave. But Emily held her ground. Oliver stayed quiet, knowing it was his fault they were here at all.
Then one evening, Emily said, “I’m visiting my parents. Need a break. Just—don’t wreck the place.”
Charlotte barely hid her glee. The next day, she started in again.
“I’ve ordered a design plan, picked out tiles—we need to pay the deposit—”
Oliver snapped.
“Are you mad? We never agreed to this. I won’t give you a penny!”
“And who are you to decide?” she shot back. “You’re not a husband anymore, just a wallet that’s nearly empty.”
That night, she packed her bags.
“Jacob and I are leaving for Brighton. If you want us back, come and fetch us. And bring money.”
Silently, Oliver pulled out his card and tossed it into her bag.
“I’ll see my son on Sundays.”
When the door closed behind them, Oliver felt free for the first time in years. He stood by the window, staring at the Thames until his eyes burned.
A week later, Emily returned. Quiet as ever. He heard the bath running and rushed in—forgetting he wasn’t alone anymore.
“Sorry—” he stammered when he saw her.
She walked past him into the kitchen. Without turning, he said, “I think… I still love you.”
“And I you, Oliver. But we can’t go back. Only start over.”
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
“Ready, he says,” she smirked. “I suppose I’ll be supporting you again. Hungry?”
“Starving. Haven’t eaten since morning.”
“Then peel the potatoes. Around here, we do things ourselves.”
*Sometimes the hardest part isn’t losing what you have—it’s realising what you threw away.*
