“I’m moving out. I’ll leave your flat keys under the doormat,” texted my husband.
“Not this again, Marina! How many times? Every penny counts, and you want a new coat? Whats wrong with the one youve got?”
“Oleg, its not ruinedits just old! Seven years, Oleg. Seven! I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at works updated their wardrobe three times over, and Im stuck in the last decade. Dont I deserve one bloody coat?”
“Of course you do, sweetheart,” Oleg snapped, hands flying up in that familiar irritated gesture. “Just not right now. You know the dealIve got this big project, all our moneys tied up. Once the deals done, Ill buy you a fur coat if you want. Just hold on.”
“Ive been holding on for twenty years, Oleg. My whole life with you. First, while you finished uni. Then while we saved for your first car. Then for this flatwell, the renovation, since my parents left it to me. Theres always something more important than me.”
Marina surprised herself. Normally, shed swallow the hurt, make tea, and move on. But tonight, something broke. She stared at himthe man shed once loved, now a stranger with tired eyes and a permanent scowl.
“Here we go,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket. “The greatest hits. I cant do this. Ive got a meeting.”
“At nine in the evening?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer. These “meetings” had become too frequent lately.
“Business, Marina. Not all of us clock out at five like you library folk. Some of us actually work to fund your little coat fantasies.”
The door slammed so hard the china rattled in the cabinet. Marina stood frozen in the hallway. The silence afterward was suffocating, thick as custard. She drifted to the kitchen, filled the kettle mechanically. Her hands shooknot from anger, but from the hollow ache inside. She *knew*. Knew about the younger woman from his office, the one he thought she didnt notice. Shed ignored the signs, brushed off the thoughts like buzzing flies.
Her phone buzzed in her dressing gown pocket. Probably him, apologisinghis usual “Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk when Im back.” She pulled it out. Olegs name. But the words werent what she expected.
*”Im moving out. Ill leave your flat keys under the doormat.”*
Eight words. Short, sharp, like axe blows. She read them again. And again. The letters blurred. This couldnt be real. A cruel joke. Not after twenty years. Not like this.
She tore into the bedroom. Yanked open the wardrobe. His side was nearly empty. His best suits, shirts, jumpersgone. Only a forgotten tie remained. His watch and phone charger were missing from the nightstand. Hed planned this. The coat argument was just his excuse.
Her legs gave way. She sank onto the bed, struggling to breathe. Twenty years. Her entire adult life. Theyd met at uni, married right after, moved into this flather parents old place. Theyd painted walls, picked furniture, dreamed of kids that never came. She worked at the local library; he built his little business. Life wasnt perfect, but it was *theirs*. Now hed erased it with a text.
First call: her only close friend, Sophie.
“Soph he left,” Marina whispered, voice cracking.
“Who left? Whered he go?” Sophie mumbled, half-asleep. “Marina, whats happened?”
“Oleg. Hes gone. For good. Texted me hes moving out.”
Silence. Then
“That absolute *wanker*!” Sophies voice boomed. “I *told* you his late meetings were dodgy! Right, no panic. Hell slink back. Wheres he gonna go?”
“No, Soph. He took his things.”
“All of them?”
“Most. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”
“Oh, *that*s rich” Sophie hissed. “Stay put. Im coming over. Wine. Or better yet, vodka. Were fixing your broken heart tonight.”
Sophie arrived in forty minutes, arms full of snacks and a bottle of whisky. She stormed into the kitchen, dumped cheese, crisps, and lemon on the table.
“Right. Spill. What set him off?”
Marina, steadier now, explained the coat, his constant irritation, the coldness between them lately.
“Right,” Sophie nodded, pouring whisky. “Midlife crisis. Found some young thing at work and decided hes Don Juan. Classic. Men his age lose the plot. Bet hell come crawling back when she dumps him.”
They drank. The whisky burned, warmth spreading through Marinas chest.
“What do I do, Soph? How do I live?”
“You *live*, love. First, change the locks. Tomorrow. No chances. Second, divorce him and take half. Hes got that window-fitting business, yeah?”
“Had has. Its small. Everythings in his name. The car too.”
“Perfect. Half is *yours*. Let his new fling enjoy him showing up with a suitcase.”
They talked till dawn. Sophie ranted about revenge; Marina just stared, numb. She didnt want revenge. She wanted yesterday morninghim here, their usual coffee, everything normal.
Morning came. Sophie left for work. Marina stood alone in the silent flat. Every creak sounded like his footsteps. His dressing gown hung on the kitchen chair. She buried her face in itstill smelled like him. And then she broke, sobbing like a child.
The first days blurred. She called in sick, lied about flu. Stayed on the sofa, barely eating or sleeping. No calls. No texts. As if hed never existed.
On day three, she forced herself to call a locksmith. The man frowned at the old lock, replaced it in half an hour. New keys in hand, she breathed easier. This was *her* fortress now.
Next, she sorted his leftoversold T-shirts, stray socks, a toolbox on the balcony. In the loft, a dusty cardboard box tied with string: *”Documents. Oleg.”* She lugged it down. Hed stored it years ago, muttering about old contracts.
Curiosity won. She untied the string. Top layer: dull paperwork. Underneathher flats deeds. Inheritance papers, the survey, old bills. Why here?
Then she found it. A loan agreement. Signed by Oleg three years ago. A massive sum. And the collateral? *Her flat.*
Her blood turned to ice. How? He couldnt mortgage her flat without her! She was the sole owner! She kept reading. Attached: a copy of her passport and a power of attorney. Giving Oleg full control of her property. Her signature. But shed *never* signed this.
She racked her brain. Three years agoOleg expanding his business, needing cash. One evening, hed brought a stack of papers, said it was tax stuff. Shed signed blindly, like always. The attorney mustve been slipped in.
Her heart hammered. Three years her home had been someone elses security. And Oleg never said a word.
She called him. No answer. Texted: *”Whats this loan in the box? You mortgaged MY flat?!”*
His reply came thirty minutes later. Cold.
*”None of your business. My problem. Ill handle it.”*
*”MY flat is MY business! You had NO right!”*
*”I had the attorney. Stay out of it.”*
She called Sophie, voice shaking as she explained.
“*WHAT?!*” Sophie roared. “Thats not just scummythats *illegal*! Right, no tears. You need a solicitor. A *good* one. My bosss husband used this blokeAndrew. Ill get his number.”
An hour later, Sophie texted the contact. Marina hesitatedashamed, scared. But fear of homelessness won.
Andrew wasnt the grey-haired old man shed pictured. Mid-forties, calm grey eyes. His office was small but tidy.
“Marina, yes? Tell me whats happened.”
She spilled everything, showed the copies shed made. Andrew studied the papers, taking notes.
“Tricky,” he said finally. “The attorneys valid. Sos the loan. Your husband used your flat as collateral. Repayments due in two months. If he defaults, the lender can legally claim the property.”
“So Id be evicted?”
“Potentially. But theres hope. We can argue you were misleddidnt understand what you signed. Its called an unconscionable bargain. Long process, but possible. Alternatively he repays the
