“I’m moving out. I’ll leave the keys to your flat under the mat,” the husband wrote.
“Here we go again, Marianne! How many times must we have this argument? Every penny counts, and all you care about is a new coat. Whats wrong with the old one? Is it falling apart?”
“Oliver, its not falling apartits just old! Seven years old. Seven! I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at work has updated their wardrobe three times over, and Im stuck looking like I walked out of the last century. Dont I deserve one measly coat?”
“Of course you do, darling!” Oliver threw his hands up, his face twisting in that familiar look of irritation. “But not now. You know my projects on the lineall the moneys tied up. Once I close this deal, Ill buy you a bloody mink coat. Just hold on a little longer.”
“Ive been holding on for twenty years, Oliver. Our entire marriage. Firstwhile you finished uni. Thenwhile we saved for your first car. Thenfor this flat, or rather, its renovation, because my parents were the ones who left it to me. Theres always something more important than me.”
Marianne surprised herself with her own words. Usually, she swallowed her resentment and trudged off to make tea. But today, something snapped. She stared at her husbandonce beloved, now a stranger with a permanently sour face and dull eyes.
“Here we go,” he muttered, yanking his jacket from the hook. “Another pity party. I dont have time for this. Ive got a meeting.”
“A meeting at nine in the evening?” she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer. These “meetings” had become far too frequent over the past six months.
“A work meeting, Marianne! Not all of us get to sit in a library breathing in dust until six. Some of us actually work so people like you can dream about coats.”
He slammed the door so hard the old cabinet rattled. Marianne flinched, standing frozen in the hallway. The silence after his exit was deafening, thick as treacle. She moved to the kitchen on autopilot, filling the kettle with shaky hands. Not from angerfrom a hollow, gnawing emptiness inside. She knew he wasnt at a meeting. Knew there was another womanyoung, glamorous, from his office. Shed ignored the signs, but they kept buzzing in her head like persistent flies.
Her phone vibrated in her dressing gown pocket. Probably an apology, like always. “Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk when Im back.” She pulled it out. A message from Oliver. But the words were different.
“I’m moving out. I’ll leave the keys to your flat under the mat.”
Eight words. Short, sharp, like hammer blows. She read them again and again. The letters blurred. This had to be a cruel joke. He wouldnt do this. Not after twenty years. Just… leave, with nothing but a text.
She rushed to the bedroom, yanked open the wardrobe. His side was nearly empty. His best suits, shirts, jumpersgone. A lone tie lay abandoned on the shelf. His watch and phone charger were missing from the nightstand. Hed packed in advance. The coat argument had just been an excuse.
Her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air. Twenty years. Her entire adult life. Theyd met at uni, married right after graduation. Lived in this very flather parents’ gift. Theyd picked out wallpaper together, saved for furniture, dreamed of children that never came. She worked at the local library; he ran his small business. Life hadnt been perfect, but it had been theirs. And now hed erased it with a single message.
She called her only close friend, Sophie.
“Sophie… hes gone,” she whispered, barely holding back a sob.
“Whos gone? Where?” Sophie mumbled, half-asleep. “Marianne, whats wrong?”
“Oliver. Hes left. For good. Sent a text saying hes moving out.”
Silence. Then
“That absolute wanker!” Sophies voice was razor-sharp. “I told you his late-night meetings were dodgy! Dont panic. Hell crawl back. They always do.”
“No, Sophie. He took his things.”
“Everything?”
“Nearly all of it. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”
“Oh, that” Sophie inhaled sharply. “Right. Stay home. Im coming over. Buy wine. Or better yet, vodka. Were fixing your broken heart.”
Sophie arrived forty minutes later with a bag of groceries and a bottle of brandy. She marched into the kitchen, slamming cheese, salami, and lemon onto the table.
“Talk. What happened?”
Marianne, steadier now, told her about the coat, his constant irritation, the icy distance between them these past months.
“Right,” Sophie said, pouring brandy. “Midlife crisis. Found some tart at work and decided hes Don Juan now. Classic. Men his age lose the plot.”
They drank. The brandy burned, spreading warmth through Mariannes veins.
“What do I do, Soph? How do I live?”
“You live, love. Firstchange the locks. Tomorrow. Secondlawyer up. Divorce. Half his business is yours by law. Let his new floozy enjoy him showing up with a suitcase.”
They talked into the night. Sophie ranted about revenge while Marianne stared blankly. She didnt want revenge. She wanted to rewind timeback to this morning, when he was still here, when they drank coffee like always.
The next morning, Sophie left for work, and Marianne was alone. The silence pressed down. Every creak of the floorboard sounded like his footsteps. His dressing gown hung on the kitchen chair. She buried her face in it, inhaling his scentand broke down, sobbing like a child.
The first few days passed in a haze. She called in sick, lying about a cold. She barely ate, barely slept. The phone stayed silent. Oliver didnt call. Didnt text. As if hed never existed.
On the third day, she forced herself to call a locksmith. He replaced the old lock in half an hour. The new keys felt like reclaiming her fortress.
Then she started sorting his leftover belongings. Old T-shirts, socks, a toolbox on the balcony. In the attic, she found a cardboard box labelled “OliverDocuments.” She dragged it down. Five years ago, hed stashed it away, muttering about old contracts he might need.
Curiosity cut through the numbness. She opened it. On top were business papers. Underneathdeeds to her flat. Her inheritance documents. And thena loan agreement. Signed by Oliver three years ago. Borrowing a massive sum. With her flat as collateral.
Her blood turned to ice. How? He couldnt mortgage her flat without her consentit was hers alone. She kept digging. Attached was a copy of her passport and… a power of attorney. Giving him full control over her property. Her signature. But she didnt remember signing this.
Then it hit her. Three years ago, Oliver had brought home a stack of papers, calling it “tax paperwork.” Shed signed blindly, trusting him. Hed slipped it in.
Her heart pounded. Shed lived these three years not knowing her home was at risk. And Oliverhed said nothing.
She called him. No answer. She texted:
“Whats this loan agreement? You mortgaged the flat?!”
A reply came half an hour later. Cold.
“None of your business. Ill handle it.”
“None of myOliver, its MY flat! You had no right!”
“I had the power of attorney. Stay out of it.”
She needed a lawyer. Sophie sent a number.
Andrew Peterson, the solicitor, wasnt the aging barrister shed imaginedbut a man in his forties with calm grey eyes. He listened as she spilled the story, then examined the documents.
“The power of attorney appears valid. The loans real. If the debt isnt repaid in two months, the lender can claim the flat.”
“So I could be evicted?”
“Legally, yes. But we can challenge it. Argue you were misled. Its not hopeless.”
She left his office lighter. For the first time in days, she had a plan.
A month later, life had a new rhythm. Work at the library became her sanctuary. Evenings were spent with Andrew, reconstructing the past. Shed stopped thinking of Oliver as her husbandjust a threat to her home.
Then, returning from work, chatty Mrs. Wilkins from next door stopped her.
“Love, saw Oliver in a flash new car! Black, shiny. With some young thing. Thought it was your daughterbut no, too… friendly, if you catch my drift.”
Mariannes face burned. So he wasnt just gonehe was flaunting a new life. Buying fancy cars. With whose
