Just Don’t Bring Mum Home, Please,” Urged the Wife

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 1

Dont bring your mother into our house, Anna said, her voice low but firm.

Wwhat if Paul started, his confidence wavering. What if we take her in?

Take her where, Paul? Anna swept her hand around the cramped sixtysquaremetre flat they called home. Into the nursery? With Arthur and Blythe?

Lying there, bedridden, with pressure sores? You want the kids to see that? To have it fill their lungs? she snapped, the tension in the room palpable.

The family of four was winding down for the night.

Anna was wiping a sticky juice stain from the kitchen table, one foot nudging a toy fire engine off the hallway floorone Arthur had tossed there five years earlier.

In the bathroom, the water rushed as Paul bathed twoyearold Blythe. Her shrill screams mingled with his deep, mockthunderous laugh.

Anna smiled faintly, feeling the strain loosen. It was a good evening, a normal one.

These were the moments she treasured most: the mortgage paid on time, a tidy sum growing in the holiday fund, a fridge full, husband and children healthy.

A phone on the windowsill buzzed, sliding a few centimetres across the countertop. An unknown number was calling.

Anna frowned.

Typical creditcard sales pitch, or another bank security alert at this hour?

She lifted the receiver, but her finger drifted to the green answer button.

Hello?

Anna? The voice on the other end trembled. Its Aunt Zina, Mrs. Larkins neighbour from Littleford.

Inside Anna, everything tightened. Littleford was the village where his motherinlaw liveda place Paul and Anna had cut out of their lives two years ago.

Good evening, Aunt Zina, Anna replied curtly, lowering her voice so Paul wouldnt hear. How did you get my number?

I found it in Lauras notebook She wrote it down herself Oh God The woman sobbed. Anna, theres been an accident Lauras been in a crash.

Anna froze, the rag still in her hand.

What do you meancrash?

On the motorway. She was heading into town, I dont know whylate at night She swerved into oncoming traffic. The windscreen

Thank heavens the airbags saved the passengers, but Laura

The car burned to a cinder, Anna. With the paperwork inside. Everything. They managed to pull her out, but it was a mess.

Shes in the district hospital now, in intensive care.

The water in the bathroom fell silent. The door swung open and Paul stepped out, a towelwrapped Blythe cradled in his arms. He was smiling, about to tell a story, but stopped dead when he saw Annas face.

Anna? Whats happened?

She pressed the phone to her chest, inhaled deeply.

Aunt Zina, I understand. Well sort something out. Thank you for calling.

She hung up and turned to Paul.

Paul, put Arthur down. We need to talk.

***

They sat at the kitchen table. The children, unusually quick to settle, lay downArthur and Blythe, their faces reflecting that something was terribly wrong.

Paul sat with his hands clasped tightly.

So shes alive, he said hoarsely, staring out the darkened window.

The doctor said her condition is serious but stable, Anna murmured, twisting the phone in her fingers. Her hip its shattered. The femur, ribs, neck. Theyll need surgery, but

What but?

The doctor was blunt: shes now a longterm bedridden patient. At least six months, possibly longer, given her age and how shes been looking after herself.

Paul winced.

The car was destroyed?

Burnt to the ground. All the documents went up in flames too. Aunt Zina wasnt sure how Laura ended up headonmaybe she felt unwell, maybe she was distracted.

Paul paced the tiny kitchen, two steps here, two steps back.

Two years, he said, not addressing anyone. Two years of us living quietly. We finally started breathing, without endless calls, without the constant grinding. How she tormented you, how she demanded the flat, forbade us from putting it in our name.

You called Arthur a slacker, said I led you on

Anna moved closer, a sad smile on her lips.

Paul, all the old grudges aside we have to decide what to do. The doctors are waiting for our answer. Theyll move her from ICU to a trauma ward tomorrow. Shell need care.

The nurses there they only visit once a day for free, Paul snapped. What sort of care are you suggesting? I give up my job? Quit? Weve just gotten back on our feet. Were paying for Arthurs football club, Blythes dance lessons.

Theres a private carer option, Anna said cautiously.

Youve seen the price? Fulltime livein carer is at least £1,600 a week, not counting drugs, nappies, food. Thats almost my entire salary, Anna, or yours.

I know.

So what are we supposed to live on? Bare beans? For whom? For the woman who pushed me into old age while she ran her own love life?

Pauls voice cracked, the childlike resentment hed buried for years surfacing raw.

The one who never wished his grandchildren a happy birthday, who threw me out in the rain while I was pregnant?

Its not just money, Anna whispered. Its our sanity, our childrens future.

Pauls temper flared.

Then what? Throw away Arthurs pool, Blythes lessons, our normal life and hand it all over to her?

Because if we dont, youll eat your own words, Anna shot back.

Paul fell silent.

I dont love her, Anna, he said in a low voice. It sounds cruel, but I feel nothing but hatred.

I know. I dont love her either. After what she said about my family, theres no room for love.

Then why bother?

Because were human, Paul. Not beasts. Justice demands we look after her.

He gave a bitter grin.

Justice? Where was justice when I was picking my nose in school and she turned up once a month with a bag of sweets, playing the perfect mum for the neighbours? When she demanded the money wed saved for the birth?

There was never justice, Anna said firmly. And there never will be. Were not talking about her now; were talking about us, about what well have to live with.

Paul pressed his fingers to his nose.

Fine. Lets count what we have left.

Whats in the rainyday fund?

£300,000 earmarked for a new car, £200,000 for a holiday. Thats half a million. The operation is covered by the NHS, but the implants and screws might have to be imported, costing extra. Medication, a private carer

He pulled up the calculator on his phone.

A private carer in hospital costs about £2,000£3,000 a day. Thats roughly £90,000 a month. Six months £540,000.

He stared at Anna, eyes widened.

Thats everything we have, Anna. And then some. Well be wiped out.

Anna stayed silent, the numbers hanging heavy in the air. They were the fruits of years of hard work.

What if Paul began, hesitant. What if we take her home?

Where, Paul? Anna gestured at their modest flat. Into the nursery? With Arthur and Blythe?

A bedridden woman with pressure sores, feeding tubes, constant care? You want the kids to see that every night?

No, Paul answered quickly. Of course not.

Into our bedroom? Well sleep on the couch in the kitchen. When will you work? Shell demand attention every second. Shell manipulate, guilttrip, cause endless fights. Well split up within a month, Paul. I cant do this.

Paul lowered his head. He knew she was right. His own mother had a talent for turning a home into a living nightmare.

Then theres no choice, he said finally. Either we lose the money or we leave her there?

Social services, Anna suggested. We could try to get her into a staterun residential home for the longterm.

Youve been in one? Paul grimaced. Its a hospice. A oneway ticket. Shell be gone in a few months.

At least its free the council will look after her pension.

Paul paced again, measuring the room with his feet.

I cant, he whispered. I hate her, but I cant just consign her to a ditch. Id lose any respect for myself.

Anna exhaled.

Alright. Heres the plan.

She grabbed a notebook and pen from the fridge door.

We wont blow all our savings. Well hire a private carer directly, not through an agencycheaper rates. Around fortyfifty pounds a day.

Still a lot.

Its a lot, but we can cover it with our current income if we cut back. No dining out, no cinema, no new clothes for the next six months. We wont buy a new car yet. The rainyday money will go to medication and unexpected costs.

Paul watched her write, a flicker of admiration crossing his face. He had fallen in love with this resolve once.

When will she be discharged? he asked. In a month or two? Where will we take her? The village?

The cottage there has no running water. Shed be stuck. Well rent the cheapest studio flat with basic amenities, move the carer there.

That adds another tentofifteen thousand pounds a month.

Yes.

Well work solely for her for a year, maybe two, until she can stand. Or maybe she never will.

Anna, she put down her pen. We wont bring her into our flat. Thats the condition. I need to keep our family, our sanity, our childrens childhood. Well pay for her care, but we keep the distance.

Paul was quiet for a long moment.

Paying to keep her away sounds cynical, he finally said.

It sounds honest. Well give her the best possible care under the circumstances, cover doctors, food, hygiene. Well visit every fortnight, bring supplies.

Paul wrapped his arms around her. What would I do without you?

***

They followed Annas plan. The first meeting with the residential home was tense; the matriarch blamed the son for ending up disabled. The motherinlaw also accused Anna of forcing Paul to abandon his own mother.

They found a private carer, bought everything the doctors prescribed, and began hunting for a modest flat for the motherinlaw and the matriarch. Every day the phone rang with new accusations. They endured it because they werent beaststhey were only human.

Not the Mum We Hoped For – “Anna, have you left the wet towel on the bathroom hook again?” Her mother-in-law’s voice called out from the hallway just as Anna stepped in from work. Val, arms crossed, fixed her with a pointed stare. – “It’s hanging there to dry,” Anna replied, kicking off her shoes. “That’s what the hook is for.” – “In proper homes, towels go on the heated rack. But what would you know about that?” Anna swept past her without comment. Twenty-eight years old, two university degrees, a managerial position—and here she was, getting daily lectures about towels. Val watched Anna go, disapproval etched into her face. This silent treatment, the way Anne ignored her, walked around as if she owned the house. Fifty-five years on this earth taught Val to size people up—and she’d never liked this one. Cold. Dismissive. Max had needed a warm, homely woman—not this living statue. For the next few days, Val watched closely. Noted. Remembered… – “Arty, tidy up your toys before dinner.” – “Don’t want to.” – “I didn’t ask what you wanted. Tidy up.” Six-year-old Arty pouted but scuffled away to gather up scattered soldiers. Anna didn’t even look his way, chopping vegetables, stony-faced. Val watched from the lounge. There it was: that chill she’d noticed. No smiles, no kind words. Just orders. Poor boy. – “Gran?” Arty climbed onto the sofa while Anna sorted laundry. “Why’s mum always so cross?” Val stroked his hair. The moment was perfect. – “You know, pet… some people just aren’t good at showing they care. It is sad—but not your fault.” – “Are you good at it?” – “Of course, angel. Granny will always love you. Granny isn’t cross.” Every time they were alone, Val added new strokes to the picture. Softly. Gradually. – “Mum wouldn’t let me watch cartoons today,” Arty complained the next week. – “Poor thing. Mum is strict, isn’t she? Sometimes even I think she’s too strict. But don’t you worry. Come to me—Granny always understands.” The boy nodded, soaking up every word. Granny—kind. Granny—understands. But mum… – “You know,” Val would drop her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “some mums just can’t be gentle. It’s not your fault, Arty. You’re a wonderful boy. It’s just that your mum… well, she’s not a very good one.” Arty hugged his grandmother. Something cold and strange crept into his chest when he thought of his mum. A month later, Anna noticed her son had changed. – “Arty, sweetheart, come here, let me hug you.” He pulled away. – “Don’t want to.” – “Why?” – “Just don’t.” He ran to Gran. Anna was left standing in the nursery with empty arms. Something had broken, and she couldn’t work out when or why. Val watched from the hall, lips curling in satisfaction. – “Arty,” Anna tried again that evening,, “are you cross with me?” – “No.” – “Then why won’t you play with me?” The look he gave her was distant, unfamiliar. – “I want to be with Gran.” Anna let him go, a dull ache spreading in her chest. – “Max, I don’t recognise Arty anymore,” she told her husband late that night. “He avoids me. It never used to be like this.” – “Come on, love. Kids change all the time. Today it’s one thing, tomorrow another.” – “No, it’s not that. The way he looks at me—it’s like I’ve done something awful.” – “You’re exaggerating. Mum looks after him while we’re at work. He’s just attached.” Anna wanted to argue, but stopped. Max was already lost in his phone. Meanwhile Val, tucking her grandson up when his parents worked late, kept up the narrative: – “Your mum loves you—in her own, cold, strict way. Not all mums can be kind. But Granny will never hurt you. Not like mum.” Arty fell asleep thinking about her words. Each morning, he eyed his mother a little more warily. Now he openly showed his preference. – “Arty, shall we go for a walk?” Anna reached out her hand. – “I want to go with Gran.” – “Arty…” – “With Gran!” Val took his hand with gusto. – “Don’t pester him. See? He doesn’t want you. Come, Arty, let’s get you an ice cream.” They left. Anna watched them go, something heavy pressing against her heart. Her own son turning away from her. Running to Gran. And she didn’t know how or why. That evening, Max found Anna in the kitchen clutching a cold mug of tea, staring at the wall. – “I’ll talk to him, I promise.” She nodded, too tired for words. Max sat beside his son in the nursery. – “Arty, tell dad—why don’t you want to be with mum?” The boy looked down. – “Just because.” – “That’s not an answer. Did mum upset you?” – “No…” – “Then what is it?” Silence. Six-year-olds can’t explain what they barely understand. Gran said mum was mean, cold. So it must be true. Gran doesn’t lie. Max left, no closer to an answer. Val, meanwhile, planned her next move. Anna was really drooping now—any day, she’d pack up and leave. Max deserved better. A real wife, not this ice queen. – “Arty,” Val caught him in the hallway while Anna showered the next day, “you know Granny loves you best in the world, don’t you?” – “I know.” – “And mum… well, mum’s not great, is she? Never hugs, never cuddles, always cross… Poor boy.” She didn’t hear footsteps behind her. – “Mum.” Val turned. Max stood in the doorway, white-faced. – “Arty, go to your room,” he said quietly, and the boy scuttled away. – “Max, I was just—” – “I heard everything.” Silence. – “Did you deliberately turn him against Anna? All this time?” – “I’m looking out for my grandson! She’s like a warden with him!” – “Are you even listening to yourself?” Val backed away. Her son’s face was unreadable, but the disgust was plain. – “Max, please—” – “No. You listen.” He stepped closer. “You sabotaged my son’s relationship with his own mother. My wife. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” – “I was trying to help!” – “Help? Arty is terrified of his own mother! Anna’s beside herself! That’s helping?” Val lifted her chin. – “She’s just all wrong for you, Max. Cold. Earns more than you. Uncaring…” – “Enough!” His shout snapped them both to attention. Max breathed hard. – “Pack your things. Tonight.” – “You’re throwing me out?” – “I’m protecting my family. From you.” Val started to protest—but the look in Max’s eyes said it was final. No more second chances. Within an hour, she was gone. No goodbyes. Max found Anna in their bedroom. – “I know now why Arty changed.” She looked up, red-eyed. – “It was my mum. She told him you were mean. That you didn’t love him properly. She’s been turning him against you all this time.” Anna froze. Then exhaled slowly. – “I thought I was losing my mind. Thought I was just a bad mum.” Max sat beside her and pulled her in. – “You’re a wonderful mum. I don’t know what got into mine. But she’ll never come near Arty again.” The next weeks were hard. Arty asked for his gran, confused by her absence. His parents talked with him—softly, patiently. – “Sweetheart,” Anna would say, stroking his hair, “what Granny said about me wasn’t true. I love you. More than anything.” He looked at her warily. – “But you’re mean.” – “Not mean—just strict. Because I want you to become a good person. Sometimes, being firm is love too, you know?” He thought long and hard. – “Can you hug me?” Anna hugged him so tightly he burst into giggles… Day by day, the old Arty returned. The one who ran to show his mum a drawing. The one who fell asleep to her lullabies. Max watched them playing in the sitting room, thinking of his mother. She called a few times. He didn’t answer. Val was alone now. No grandson. No son. She’d only wanted to protect Max from the wrong woman—and ended up losing both. Anna laid her head on Max’s shoulder. – “Thank you for fixing it all.” – “Sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” Arty dashed over and clambered onto his dad’s knee. – “Mum! Dad! Can we go to the zoo tomorrow?” It turned out, life was getting back on track…

Mum’s Not Exactly Winning Any Awards – Anna, have you left a wet towel hanging in the bathroom again? Her mother-in-law’s voice rang out from the hallway just as Anna stepped in after work. Valerie stood there, arms folded, eyes boring into her daughter-in-law. – It’s drying, – Anna kicked off her shoes. – That’s what the hook’s for. – In decent homes, towels go on the drying rack. But how would you know? Anna walked past without replying. Twenty-eight, two university degrees, a managerial post – and here she was, getting told off about towels. Every single day. Valerie watched her go, unimpressed. The way she always went silent, ignored her, acted like she was queen of the manor. Fifty-five years had taught Valerie how to read people, and she hadn’t liked this girl from the start. Cold. Arrogant. Max needed a warm, homely wife, not some ice sculpture. In the days that followed, Valerie watched. She noticed. She remembered… – Archie, tidy up your toys before tea. – Don’t want to. – I’m not asking. Tidy up. Six-year-old Archie puffed out his cheeks but shuffled off to collect his scattered soldiers. Anna didn’t even glance over, chopping vegetables as if nothing had happened. Valerie watched from the sitting room. There it was – the coldness she’d spotted. No smile, no kind word, just orders. Poor boy. – Gran, – Archie climbed onto the sofa beside her after Anna disappeared to sort the washing, – why’s Mummy always so mean? Valerie stroked his hair. The moment was perfect. – You know, sweetheart… Some people are just like that. They can’t show love. It’s sad, really. – Can you show love? – Of course I can, darling. Gran loves you heaps. Gran’s not mean. He snuggled closer and Valerie smiled. Every time they were alone, she painted more of her picture – gently, gradually. – Mum wouldn’t let me watch cartoons today, – Archie grumbled a week later. – Oh, poor you. Mummy’s strict, isn’t she? Sometimes Gran thinks she’s a bit too harsh as well. But don’t worry, you can always come to me. I’ll always understand. The boy nodded, soaking up every word. Gran was kind. Gran understood. And Mummy… – Some mums just can’t be cuddly, – Valerie would whisper conspiratorially, – but it’s not your fault, Archiekins. You’re wonderful. It’s just that you’ve got a rubbish mum. Archie hugged Gran, and something cold and strange began to creep into his heart when he thought of his mother. A month later, Anna noticed the change. – Archie, sweetheart, come for a cuddle. He pulled away. – Don’t want to. – Why not? – Just don’t want to. He ran off to Gran. Anna stood in the middle of the nursery, arms outstretched, and felt something break in the everyday rhythm of their life – something she couldn’t name. Valerie watched from the hallway, a satisfied smile on her lips. – Darling, – Anna knelt beside Archie that night, – are you upset with me? – No. – Then why don’t you want to play with me? He shrugged, his gaze distant and unfamiliar. – I want Gran. Anna let him go. The ache in her chest grew heavier. – Max, I don’t recognise Archie any more, – she told her husband late that night, when everyone else was asleep. – He avoids me. He never used to. – Oh, come on. Kids go through phases. It’ll pass. – This isn’t just a phase. He looks at me as if… as if I’ve done something bad. – Anna, you’re overthinking. Mum looks after him while we’re at work. Maybe he’s just got attached. Anna opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. Max had already turned away, eyes fixed on his phone. – Your mum loves you, – Valerie told Archie when she put him to bed on evenings when work kept his parents late, – but in her own way. Cold, strict. Not all mums know how to be kind, you know? – Why? – It happens, sweetheart. But Gran will never hurt you. I’ll always protect you – not like Mum. Archie fell asleep with those words. Each morning, he eyed Anna a little more warily. Now he made his preferences clear. – Archie, want to go for a walk? – Anna reached out her hand. – I want to go with Gran. – Archie… – With Gran! Valerie quickly took his hand. – Oh, leave him be. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to? Come on, Archiekins, Gran will get you an ice cream. They left. Anna watched them go, weighed down by the knowledge that her own son was turning away from her and she couldn’t work out why. That night, Max found Anna at the kitchen table, staring vacantly at her cold tea. – Anna, I’ll talk to him. I promise. She just nodded, words escaping her. Max went to chat with Archie. – Archie, tell Daddy – why don’t you want to be with Mum? The boy looked away. – Just because. – Just because isn’t an answer. Did Mum upset you? – No… – So what is it? Archie said nothing. A six-year-old can’t explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself. Gran said Mummy was mean and cold. So it must be true. Gran never lies. Max came out of the nursery no wiser. Valerie, meanwhile, was planning her next move. Anna looked totally defeated now – it was obvious. Just a bit longer and she’d pack her bags. Max deserved more. A real wife. Not an ice queen. – Archiekins, – she caught him in the hall the next day while Anna was in the shower, – you know Gran loves you most in the world? – I know. – And Mummy… well, she’s a bit rubbish, isn’t she? Can’t cuddle properly, always grumpy. My poor boy. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. – Mum. Valerie turned. Max stood in the doorway, face white. – Archie, off to your room, – his voice was quiet but brooked no argument. The boy vanished. – Max, I was just… – I heard everything. Silence stretched. – You… – Max swallowed. – You’ve been poisoning him against Anna? All this time? – I’m looking out for him! She treats him like a prison guard! – Have you lost your mind? Valerie took a step back. She’d never seen her son look at her like that – with disgust. – Max, listen… – No, you listen. – He came closer. – You’ve turned my son against his mother. My wife. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? – I only wanted what’s best! – Best? Archie flinches from his own mum! Anna’s beside herself! That’s best? Valerie lifted her chin. – It’s for the best. She’s not right for you. Cold, nasty, heartless… – Enough! The shout stopped them both. Max took a shaky breath. – Pack your things. Tonight. – You’re throwing your own mother out? – I’m protecting my family. From you. Valerie opened her mouth, then shut it. In his eyes, the verdict was already passed. No argument. No second chances. She left an hour later. No goodbyes. Max found Anna in the bedroom. – I know why Archie changed. Anna looked up, her eyes red. – My mum. She’s… she was telling him you’re mean. That you don’t really love him. She’s been poisoning him against you. Anna froze, then let out a slow breath. – I thought I was going mad. I thought I was a terrible mum. Max sat beside her, hugged her close. – You’re a wonderful mum. It was my mum… I don’t know what came over her. But she’s not coming near Archie again. The weeks that followed were hard. Archie asked after Gran and couldn’t quite understand why she’d disappeared. His parents spoke to him gently, patiently. – Darling, – Anna stroked his hair, – what Gran said about me isn’t true. I love you. So, so much. Archie eyed her suspiciously. – But you’re mean. – Not mean, just strict. Because I want you to grow into a good person. Sometimes, being strict is love too – do you see? He thought for a long time. – Will you give me a cuddle? Anna wrapped him in her arms until Archie laughed… Gradually, day by day, the real Archie returned – the one racing to show his mum his drawings, nestling into bed to her lullabies. Max watched Anna and Archie laughing and playing, thinking about his own mum. She called a few times. Max never picked up. Valerie sat alone in her flat. No grandson. No son. All she’d wanted was to save Max from the wrong woman. And now she’d lost both. Anna laid her head on Max’s shoulder. – Thank you for fixing things. – Sorry it took me so long to see what was right in front of me. Archie scrambled onto his dad’s lap. – Mum, Dad, can we go to the zoo tomorrow? Turns out, life was starting to look up after all…

My Husband Suggested We Live Apart to Test Our Feelings—So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, I feel like we’ve grown apart. Everyday life just wears us down. I’ve been thinking… maybe we need to live separately for a while,” Ben announced, so casually that it was as if he were suggesting switching from white to brown bread for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his bowl of stew, soaking up another piece of bread, while I stood frozen with the ladle in hand, hot broth burning my wrist, but I barely noticed. The ringing in my ears was like a vacuum cleaner set to full blast right next to me. “What do you mean, live separately?” I managed to ask, trying not to let my voice shake. I set the ladle down, afraid it would slip right out of my numb fingers. “Is this about a work trip?” “No, not a work trip,” Ben grimaced, finally meeting my eyes, with the tired, slightly annoyed look of a teacher forced to explain something obvious to a wayward pupil. “I’m talking about a break. Testing our feelings. You know, the spark is gone. I come home and I feel… stifled. It’s always the same: work, dinner, telly, bed. I want to know—do I really want to be with you, or is it just habit?” I slowly sank into a chair across from him. Twenty years of marriage. Two kids, both now away at university. The mortgage paid off three years ago. The DIY renovations, pulling off old wallpaper together at weekends. And now—’stifled’? “And where exactly will you live, while you’re… testing?” I asked quietly. “I’ve rented a studio flat. For a couple of months. Near work, so I don’t get stuck in traffic,” he replied a little too quickly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I’ve already started packing up, my stuff’s in the bedroom.” So he’d made up his mind ages ago. While I was planning new plants for the garden and picking up a jumper for him in the sales, he was flat-hunting. Paying deposits. Keeping it all quiet. “And what about how I feel?” I looked at my husband, searching for any trace of the young man I married. In his place sat a stranger, greying, pudgy, shifty-eyed. “Helen, don’t start the dramatics,” Ben set his spoon down. He’d lost his appetite after all. “I’m not asking for a divorce. Yet. Just a break. Loads of couples do it; it’s healthy. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t be without each other—and it’ll be like a second honeymoon. Or… well, at least we’ll be honest if we split.” He got up, tossed his napkin on the table, and went to the bedroom. I heard the wardrobe doors, the rustle of bags. I sat in the kitchen, staring at his favourite stew—just the way he liked, with beans—and felt a cold emptiness growing inside. The evening passed in a fog. Ben bustled about, moving suitcases to the front hall with military efficiency. He took his laptop, the coffee machine (it was a present from my work, but he used it most), his warmest jumpers. “Alright, I’m off,” he said at the front door, looking both solemn and a bit guilty. “Don’t ring me, okay? Let’s agree on no calls for a month. For the experiment’s sake.” “What if there’s a plumbing disaster?” I asked foolishly. “Call a plumber. You’re a grown woman. I’ll keep my keys on me, in case I need to pop back for anything. Well, goodbye. Don’t pine.” The door slammed and the lock clicked shut. I was alone; the flat had never felt so big or so eerily quiet. For the first three days, I did almost nothing. Got up to get water or go to the loo, but that was it. I replayed the past months over and over—had I nagged too much about his socks? Had I put on weight? Was I just boring? On the fourth day, my sister, Kate, showed up. She swept in, arms loaded with shopping bags—and a bottle of wine. One look at me, sobbing in my dressing gown with greasy hair, and she just shook her head. “Come on, love, get yourself in the shower while I slice the cheese,” she ordered. An hour later, over a glass of wine in the kitchen, I recounted everything. Kate listened intently. “A ‘test of feelings’? He’s ‘stifled’?” she snorted. “Helen, you’re a smart woman—you juggle spreadsheets all day. But here, you’re missing two plus two. He’s got another woman.” “No, don’t be daft,” I waved her off. “He’s fifty-two, has a dodgy back and acid reflux. Honestly, who’d want him?” “Oh, please! Reflux never stopped anyone. The classic: ‘studio flat’, ‘don’t call me’, ‘testing our feelings’—he wants to see what it’s like with the other woman, but keep you as backup. If it works out, he’ll file for divorce. If not, he’ll crawl back begging. Seen it a hundred times.” Her words crashed down on me. I tried to defend Ben, but I knew deep down she was right. The change in his phone password, the late nights at work, the new shirt he’d bought himself (he hated shopping). “So what do I do?” I asked, anger finally firing up inside. “What you do is live, Helen! Go get your hair done. Buy something for yourself. Most importantly, stop jumping every time your phone beeps. This flat—whose is it?” “Mine. I inherited it from mum,” I answered automatically. “Ben’s still registered at his mum’s; we never bothered with the paperwork.” “Perfect! Means you call the shots. Listen, don’t sit around weeping. He thinks you’ll be waiting, all soggy pillows. Surprise him.” I couldn’t sleep that night. I wandered the flat, switching on every light. In the bathroom, I spotted his shaving cream on the shelf, grabbed it, and chucked it straight in the bin. The hollow thud as it hit was like the opening shot in a new war. Over the next fortnight, things changed. I forced myself back to work; colleagues put my weight loss down to a ‘spring detox’. I started noticing things: the flat was tidier without Ben. No crumbs, no dirty jeans tossed over chairs. Food lasted longer. I didn’t need to cook huge meals; I was happy with salad. I rediscovered the joys of evenings to myself—picked up my old knitting again. The silence became healing, not frightening. No one ranting about politics or switching over my films. But still, doubts lingered. Maybe Kate was wrong. Maybe Ben really was living alone, missing me. Everything came to a head that Friday. I was in the shopping centre, picking up some wool, when I saw them. Ben was outside a jeweller’s, arm-in-arm with a younger woman—thirty, at a stretch, in a flashy red coat. He was smiling at her, just the way he used to smile at me aged twenty. They laughed, arm-in-arm, looking like the perfect couple. I shrank back. My heart hammered in my skull as I watched my ‘stifled’ husband who ‘needed time alone’ holding another woman as if she were the most precious thing. In that moment, something in me died—and something else, cold and calm, was born. I didn’t make a scene. Didn’t follow them. I drove home in silence. First thing when I got in, I dug out my flat’s deeds—ownership in my name, from my mum. No Ben. He was never on the deeds, always dismissed sorting the paperwork with, “No point, I’m at my mum’s on paper anyway.” I called a locksmith. “Hello—can you change the locks on a metal front door? Yes, I have the deeds. How soon? An hour? Perfect.” The locksmith, built like a rugby prop, came quickly and didn’t ask questions. “Fit the most secure you’ve got,” I ordered. “Even if someone’s got an old key, I don’t want them getting in.” “No problem, love. We’ll fit a Chubb—no one’s getting through without a battle.” The whine of the drill was sweet music. Metal shavings fell on the doormat as the old lock clattered out—a perfect sound for shedding old pain. When he’d finished, I took my new, gleaming keys, locked the door tightly—click, click, click, click. Four strong turns. Four walls of my own castle. I packed up all of Ben’s things—winter jackets, shoes, fishing rods, tools—into black bin bags, staking them in the corridor outside the flat. A week passed. Not a peep from Ben—the ‘test of feelings’ with his younger muse was apparently going well. I filed for divorce online (it’s surprisingly painless). Saturday morning, the bell rang. Persistent, insistent. I checked the peephole—there he was, looking dishevelled but smug, holding a bag of groceries and a bunch of carnations. I didn’t open. Pressing my forehead to the cool metal of the door, I waited. He tried his key: scrape, scrape. Nothing. Again, with more force. Fail. He pulled it out, blew on it, tried again. “Helen!” he shouted. “Helen, are you home? What’s wrong with the lock?” I kept silent. “Helen, open up! I know you’re there—the car’s outside!” He started banging. “What’s this, a joke? I came back, with flowers! We agreed a month, but I wanted to see you sooner! I missed you!” I took a breath. Calmly, clearly: “Your things are in the black bags to the left of the door. Take them and go.” Silence on the other side. He’d seen the bags. “Have you lost your mind? What bags? Open up—now! I’m your husband, I have a right to come in!” “This isn’t your home, Ben,” I replied. “This is my flat. You wanted to live separately? Fine. Go live separately—from me. Forever.” “You…you changed the locks? How dare you! I’ll call the police! Get emergency services—someone will break this door down!” “Be my guest,” I replied. “Show them your registration. Tell them how you left to ‘test your feelings’ with your girlfriend. I’m sure they’ll have a good laugh.” “What girlfriend? Nonsense! I lived alone!” “I saw you at the shopping centre, Ben. Jeweller’s. Red coat. Enough lies. The experiment’s over. You’ve got your result.” There was a stream of expletives, then he kicked the door. “You’ll be sorry! You’ll end up alone—no one wants a washed-up forty-five year old! I only came back out of pity! I’ll take half your stuff—the car, the holiday home!” “The car and the cottage—we’ll split through the courts, as the law says,” I replied. “You’ll never get the flat. Leave now, Ben, or I’ll call the police and tell them a strange, aggressive man is banging down my door.” He raged for another minute, then threw the flowers on the floor, dragged the bags, and disappeared. I slumped onto the floor, legs trembling, tears streaming—but not tears of sadness. Just relief, emptying the old pain. After ten minutes, I stood, washed my face. Met my own stare in the mirror—tired eyes, but my chin held high. A text from Kate: “So, our Romeo was parked outside—how’d it go?” I replied: “Gone. Took his things. The new locks work brilliantly.” “Good on you! Proud of you! I’ll bring cake tonight and we’ll celebrate your new beginning!” In the kitchen, I put the kettle on. Spotted his abandoned carnations through the peephole—they were still there. Good thing I’d never opened up. Carnations. Twenty years, and he’d never remembered I hate carnations. I love tulips. A month later, the divorce came through—quick, since our kids were adults. The cottage was sold and we split the money; Ben kept the car, paid me off, and I put the cash towards my first solo holiday. As I heard from mutual friends, Ben’s “muse” ditched him as soon as she realised he’d lost his comfy flat and was facing an uncertain future. He couldn’t keep up the rent and moved back in with his mum in the old council maisonette on the edge of town. I found out by accident, but it didn’t bother me. I’d just got back from Turkey, tanned, with a new dress—maybe even a holiday romance with a charming German. Nothing serious, just a reminder that I was still attractive. One evening, coming home from work, I heard my name. “Helen?” Ben stood by the bench, thinner, in a crumpled jacket, looking battered. “Hi,” I said, barely breaking stride. “Helen, can we talk? I was stupid, made a mistake. Mum nags me to death. I miss our home—your stew… Maybe we could try again? You can’t just forget twenty years…” I looked at him and, to my surprise, felt nothing—no anger, no pain, no pity. Just emptiness, as if a stranger had asked me for change. “You can’t erase twenty years,” I agreed. “But the past belongs in the past. I’ve got a new life, Ben. There’s no room in it for old mistakes—or you.” “I’ve changed! I really get it now!” “So have I,” I smiled. “And now I know—it’s not stifling being alone. It’s freedom.” I took out my bright, new keys, and strode into my building. The intercom beeped, letting me through, cutting Ben and his regrets off behind me. In the lift, I started planning which new paint to pick for the hallway. Peach, maybe. And I’ll buy myself that comfy new armchair for knitting in the evenings. Life was only just beginning—and the keys to it were finally, and completely, in my hands.