**Diary Entry**
“I’m moving out. Ill leave your flat keys under the mat,” my husband texted.
“Not this again, Emily!” hed snapped earlier that evening. “Every penny counts, and yet you demand a new coat. Whats wrong with the one youve got?”
“James, its not *wrong*its just old! Seven years, James. *Seven*. I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at works refreshed their wardrobe twice over, and Im stuck in last decades rags. Do I not deserve one bloody coat?”
“Of course you *deserve* it,” James scoffed, irritation twisting his face into that familiar grimace. “But not now. My projects on fireevery pennys tied up. Once the deal closes, Ill buy you a mink coat. Just wait.”
“Ive waited twenty years, James. My whole life with you, Ive waited. First while you finished uni, then while we saved for your first car, then for this flator rather, its refurbishment, since my parents *gave* it to us. Theres always something more important than me.”
The words shocked even me. Normally, Id swallow the hurt, make tea, and quiet down. But tonight, something cracked. I stared at himthis man Id once loved, now a stranger with tired eyes and a permanent scowl.
“Here we go,” he muttered, yanking his jacket from the hook. “The greatest hits. I cant do this. Ive got a meeting.”
“A meeting at nine *at night*?” I asked softly, though I knew. These “meetings” had grown frequent over the past six months.
“Work, Emily. Not all of us clock out at five to breathe in library dust. Some of us *earn* the luxuries you dream of.”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the china cabinet. I stood frozen in the hallway, the silence thick as custard. On autopilot, I boiled the kettle, hands tremblingnot from anger, but from a hollow, gnawing emptiness. I *knew* there was no meeting. Knew about *her*young, bright, from his office. Id ignored the signs, but they buzzed in my head like persistent flies.
My phone vibrated. An apology text, probably: “Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk later.” But Jamess message read:
**”Im moving out. Ill leave your flat keys under the mat.”**
Eight words. Short, blunt, like axe blows. I read them again and again, the letters dancing, refusing to make sense. It couldnt be real. A cruel joke. Not after twenty years. Not like *this*.
I ran to the bedroom. His side of the wardrobe was nearly emptybest suits, shirts, jumpers gone. A forgotten tie lay abandoned on the shelf. His watch and charger were missing. Hed packed in advance. The coat argument was just an excuse.
My legs buckled. I gasped for air, staring at the void in the wardrobe. Twenty years. My entire adult life. Wed met at uni, married right after. Lived in this flat my parents left me. Painted walls, picked furniture, dreamed of children that never came. I worked at the local library; he built his little business. Life wasnt perfect, but it was *ours*. And now hed erased it with a text.
I called Sophie, my only close friend.
“Soph hes gone,” I whispered, voice cracking.
“Whos gone? Where?” Sophie mumbled, half-asleep. “Em, whats wrong?”
“James. Left. For good. Texted hes moving out.”
Silence. Then
“That *bastard*!” Sophie barked. “I *told* you his late meetings were dodgy! Look, dont panic. Hell slink back. Men always do.”
“No, Soph. He took his things.”
“*Everything?*”
“Nearly. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”
“Oh, hes *done*,” she hissed. “Right. Stay put. Im coming over. Buy wine. Or vodka. Were fixing your broken heart.”
Sophie arrived in forty minutes with a bag of snacks and a bottle of whisky. She marched to the kitchen, dumped cheese, crisps, and lemon on the table.
“Right. Spill. What started it?”
Haltingly, I recounted the coat, his constant irritation, the icy distance of recent months.
“Classic,” Sophie snorted, pouring whisky. “Midlife crisis. Found some shiny young thing and decided youre too dull for his new glamorous life. Textbook.”
We drank. The whisky burned, warmth spreading through me.
“What do I *do*, Soph? How do I”
“*Live*, Em. First, change the locks. *Tomorrow*. Second, file for divorce and half his business. That window-fitting thing of his still running?”
“Y-yes. But its all in his name. The car too.”
“*Perfect*. Half is yours by law. Let his new floozy enjoy him arriving with one suitcase.”
We talked deep into the night. Sophie ranted about revenge; I stared blankly, numb. I didnt *want* revenge. I wanted to rewind to that morning, when wed shared coffee like nothing was wrong.
At dawn, Sophie left for work. Alone, the flats silence pressed on me. Every creak echoed his steps. His dressing gown hung on the kitchen chair. I buried my face in itstill faintly his scentand sobbed like a child.
Days blurred. I called in sick, lying about flu. I lay on the sofa, barely eating, barely sleeping. No calls. No texts. As if hed never existed.
On day three, I forced myself to call a locksmith. He clucked at the old lock, replaced it in half an hour. The new keys felt like reclaiming my fortress.
Next, I sorted his leftoversold T-shirts, socks, a toolbox on the balcony. In the loft, I found a cardboard box labelled “James Documents.” I dragged it down. Hed stashed it years ago, muttering about “old contracts.”
Curiosity cut through the fog. Inside, beneath dull paperwork, lay the deeds to *my* flat. And beneath *those*a loan agreement. Signed by James three years prior. Hed borrowed a staggering sum. The collateral? *My flat.*
My blood iced over. How? He couldnt mortgage it without my consentI was the sole owner! I kept reading. Attached was a copy of my passport and a *power of attorney*. Giving him full rights to my property. The signature was mine. But Id *never* signed this.
I racked my brain. Three years ago, hed been expanding his business, needed funds. One night, hed brought a stack of papers, said they were “tax forms,” urgent. Trusting him, Id signed blindly. The POA mustve been slipped in.
My hands shook. For *three years*, my home had been someone elses security. And James had said *nothing*.
I called him. No answer. Texted: **”Whats this loan in the box? You mortgaged the FLAT?!”**
He replied thirty minutes later, cold as his first text:
**”Not your concern. Ill handle it.”**
**”Its *MY* flat, James! You had NO RIGHT!”**
**”I did. The POA. Stay out of it.”**
I called Sophie, voice breaking as I explained.
“*WHAT?!*” she shrieked. “Thats not just scummyits *fraud*! Em, listen. No tears. You need a solicitor. A *good* one. I know someoneAndrew Taylor. Helped my bosss husband with a messy case. Ill text his number.”
An hour later, I dialled, shame burning my throat. I felt like a fool, duped by my own husband. But fear of homelessness was stronger.
Andrew Taylor wasnt the grey-haired elder Id imagined, but a man in his forties with calm grey eyes. His office was small, warm.
“Hello, Emily. Tell me whats happened.”
Tearfully, I laid it all out, showing the documents Id photocopied. He studied them, jotting notes.
“This is serious,” he said finally. “The POA appears valid. The loans due in two months. If unpaid, the lender can claim your flat.”
“So I could be *evicted*?”
“Legally, yes. But we can contest it. Argue you were misledthat you didnt understand what you signed. Its called an unconscionable bargain. Hard, but possible.”
“Any other way?”
“James repays the debt. Have you spoken?”
“He said its his problem and to back off.”
Andrew frowned. “Right.
