“Let Denis Go!”: I Just Agreed…
“Where exactly are you off to?” Yvonne asked dryly, watching her husband tug on a fresh shirt.
“Just meeting the lads for a pint and a chat,” Denis replied, barely glancing her way.
“And when, exactly, do you plan to spend time with me?” Yvonne attempted a smile, but it came out bitter.
“You’re always at work! How was I supposed to know you’d miraculously finish early today?”
A fair point, one might think. Except lately, there’d been too many of these *fair points*—convenient excuses piling up like unwashed dishes. And Yvonne was tired. Tired of being the one who understood, forgave, and footed the bills.
Once, she’d thought she’d found *the one*. Denis had been attentive, humble, a tad younger—but what did age matter when two souls clicked? Mum’s friends had introduced them, they’d tied the knot, and moved into her spacious flat. He worked… sporadically. But she earned enough. For both.
The first red flag came a year in. An affair. Then another. And another. Apologies, tears, promises. And then came the spending—a PlayStation, a top-tier PC, the latest phone… Now, a car.
“Yvie, love, think how handy it’ll be! I’ll pick you up from work, drop the kids at nursery—” Denis dreamt aloud.
“Try coming home first,” she cut in. But old habits died hard.
Then came the phone call. That Sunday morning.
“Hello? Let Denis go!” chirped a young woman’s voice.
“Sorry, who is this?”
“We’re in love! You’re just… in the way!”
Yvonne listened in silence.
“Sure your love’s worth more than money?” she finally asked.
“Of course!”
“Let’s test that. Take him. Permanently.”
She hung up and calmly packed his things.
Ten minutes later, Denis returned. He froze in the doorway, staring at the suitcase.
“Are we… going somewhere?”
“You are. Wherever you like.”
“What?”
“Literally. We’re done.”
“Over some silly tart? I was joking, Yvie! We talked about starting a family! The car—”
“Yes. I’ll buy my own car now. Get my own licence. Have kids—without you, if I fancy. Cheers for the motivation.”
He argued. Pleaded. Manipulated. But Yvonne was unshakable.
A year later, she stepped out of her shiny new car at the shopping centre—driver’s licence in hand, confidence in her stride, a light smile. And that new dress her current partner adored—steady, dependable, no nonsense.
Spotting Denis in the distance, she paused just a second.
“You bought *that* one? But… I wanted black.”
“And I wanted red. So I bought red.”
She walked on, leaving him in the shadows. No words. No regrets. No him.
