Years ago, when I stood before the locked door of my own home in Manchester, key useless against the new bolt, my heart plunged into an abyss. My marriage, which I’d fought so hard to save, crumbled in an instant. But my cheating husband and his mistress had no idea what awaited them—a lesson they’d never forget.
“Thomas, it’s nearly ten,” my voice shook as I called him the evening prior. “You promised you’d be home by seven!”
He tossed his keys onto the side table without even glancing my way.
“Work, Eleanor. What do you expect me to say to my boss? That I need to rush home to my wife?” His tone dripped with irritation, as though I were a burden.
I swallowed my hurt, staring at the table I’d set for a quiet birthday dinner. Two candles flickered beside the cake I’d bought on my lunch break.
“Yes, Thomas. That’s exactly what you could’ve done. Just once,” I crossed my arms, fighting tears. “It’s my birthday.”
He finally looked at the table. His face twisted when he realised.
“Bloody hell, Eleanor, I forgot…” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Clearly,” I replied coldly, my insides tightening with pain.
“Don’t start,” he waved me off. “I’m working for us, you know that.”
I gave a bitter laugh.
“For us?” I echoed. “You’re hardly ever home, Thomas. When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Just talked, like husband and wife?”
“That’s not fair,” he frowned. “I’m building a career so we have a future.”
“What future? We live like strangers under the same roof!” My voice broke. “I earn more than you, so don’t hide behind ‘providing for the family.’”
His expression hardened.
“Of course you’d throw that in my face,” he sneered. “How am I supposed to keep up with my brilliant wife?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Enough, Eleanor. I’m going to bed,” he cut me off, leaving me alone with a cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, whispering that things would get better. He was my husband. I loved him. Marriage had its trials, didn’t it? That’s what everyone said.
How wrong I was to forgive so easily.
Thomas and I had been married three years, but the last year had been a slow, painful unravelling. We had no children—and looking back, I thanked fate for that. My job as a marketing director brought in most of our income, while Thomas, a sales manager, constantly complained about stress, long hours, the commute… about everything except the truth I discovered too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I came home early with a splitting headache. All I wanted was painkillers and bed. But as I pulled up to our house on the outskirts of Manchester, something felt off. The door handle and lock, once brass, now gleamed with new silver metal.
“What the—” I muttered, sliding my key in. It didn’t fit.
I tried again. Nothing. Confused, I checked the address. This was my home.
Then I spotted the note taped to the door. Thomas’s handwriting cut like a knife: “This isn’t your home anymore. Find somewhere else.”
The world tilted. My blood ran cold.
“What the hell?!” I shouted.
I pounded on the door, screaming his name. Finally, it swung open. Thomas stood there, and behind him—a woman in my cashmere dressing gown, a gift from my mother.
“You’re joking,” my voice trembled with fury.
“Eleanor, listen,” he crossed his arms, smirking. “I’ve moved on. Me and Rebecca are together now. We need this place. Go stay with someone.”
Rebecca. The “just a colleague” he’d mentioned for months. She stepped forward, hands on hips, and sneered,
“Your things are in boxes in the garage. Take them and leave.”
I stared, disbelief giving way to steely resolve. They thought they could toss me out like rubbish and face no consequences? Not a chance. I needed a plan. A brutal, meticulous one.
I knew exactly who to call.
“Eleanor? Good Lord, what’s happened?” My sister Charlotte opened her flat door, took one look at my tear-streaked face, and pulled me inside.
I collapsed onto her sofa, the story pouring out between sobs.
“That bastard!” Charlotte hissed when I finished. “And that Rebecca woman was wearing your dressing gown?”
“The one Mum gave me,” I sniffed. “The cashmere one from last birthday.”
Charlotte stormed to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine.
“Drink,” she ordered. “Then we’ll figure out how to make them pay.”
“What can I do?” I took a sip. “The house is in Thomas’s name. The mortgage was under his credit, since mine was still recovering from my master’s.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
“Who paid for everything else?”
“We both did, but—” I stopped, realising. “I bought everything. The furniture, the TV, the fridge, even the bathroom renovation last year. It was all me.”
“Exactly!” Charlotte grinned. “What does Thomas have without you? An empty house.”
I opened my banking app and scrolled through my transaction history.
“I’ve kept every receipt. Always tracked my spending.”
“Of course you did, Miss Spreadsheet,” Charlotte laughed. “Queen of order!”
For the first time that awful day, I felt control returning.
“They think they’ve won, don’t they?” I whispered.
Charlotte clinked her glass against mine.
“They’ve no idea who they’re dealing with.”
The next morning, I called my lawyer friend, Margaret.
“What he did is illegal,” she said over coffee. “You can’t just change the locks and kick out a spouse, even if the house is in his name. You’ve every right to live there.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I said firmly. “But I want what’s mine.”
Margaret smiled.
“Then let’s make a list.”
We spent the morning cataloguing everything I’d bought for the house: the sofa, the telly, the fridge, even the rugs. By lunch, I had a detailed list with receipts, dates, and amounts.
“Impressive,” Margaret nodded. “No one can dispute this is yours.”
“So I can just take it all?”
“Legally, yes. But I’d bring a constable to avoid trespassing claims.”
I remembered Thomas’s smug face. Rebecca in my gown. Their certainty they’d outsmarted me.
“No,” I said slowly. “I’ve a better idea.”
That same day, I contacted a removal company. The owner, William, listened to my story and nodded.
“Had a similar case last year,” he said. “Wife caught her husband with another woman. Wanted her things while he was out.”
“I need almost the same,” I replied. “Except I want them home when it happens.”
I waited until Saturday, knowing Thomas and Rebecca would be in. I arranged for William’s crew to arrive at noon.
When the lorries pulled up, I knocked. Thomas answered, his face slack with shock.
“Hello, darling,” I smiled sweetly. “I’ve come for what’s mine.”
Before he could react, the movers barged in and began stripping the house of everything I owned.
The fridge? Unplugged, food dumped in a box.
The dishwasher? Yanked mid-cycle, water sloshing on the floor.
The bed they’d slept in? Dismantled and carried out.
My dresser, my telly, my favourite sofa? Packed and loaded.
The best part? Rebecca was drying her hair with my hairdryer. I yanked it from her grip and smirked,
“Sorry, love. That was a gift from Mum. Back when Thomas was still my husband.”
“You can’t take everything!” Thomas shouted, chasing the movers. “They’re clearing out the whole house! What madness is this?”
I pulled out my folder of receipts.
“Actually, I can. Because unlike you, I pay for my things.”
He froze, speechless.
“Oh, and changing the locks while I still legally lived here?” I added. “That’s illegal. I could drag you through court. But honestly? Seeing you two in this empty house, miserable and lost? Much more satisfying.”
Rebecca shrieked something, but I was already leaving. The movers finished loading, and I slipped into my car.
In the rearview mirror, I watched them standing in the doorway—crushed, humiliated, powerless.
Sometimes I wonder if I was too cruel. Then I remember the note on the door. Their arrogance. My lonely birthday. And I know I did exactly what needed doing.
