Once, long ago, when I stood before the locked door of my own house in Manchester, key useless against the new mechanism, my heart plummeted into despair. My marriage, which I had fought so hard to preserve, shattered in an instant. But my faithless husband and his mistress had no inkling of the reckoning I would deliver—one they would never forget.
“Thomas, it’s nearly ten,” my voice trembled that evening as I rang him, the night before the disaster. “You promised to be home by seven!”
He tossed his keys carelessly onto the sideboard without so much as a glance my way.
“Work, Eleanor. What, should I tell my boss I need to run home to my wife?” Annoyance dripped from his tone, as though I were a burden.
I swallowed the sting, my gaze fixed on the table I had set for a quiet birthday supper. Two candles flickered beside the cake I’d bought during my lunch break.
“Yes, Thomas. That’s exactly what you could have done. Just once.” I crossed my arms, willing the tears back. “It’s my birthday.”
At last, he looked at the table. His face twisted with belated realisation.
“Bloody hell, Eleanor, I forgot…” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Clearly,” I replied coldly, my whole body tightening with hurt.
“Don’t start,” he dismissed me with a wave. “I’m doing this for us.”
I gave a bitter laugh.
“For us? When was the last time we dined together? Watched a film? Even spoke like husband and wife?”
“That’s unfair,” he scowled. “I’m building a career so we have a future.”
“What future? We live like strangers under the same roof!” My voice cracked. “I earn more than you—spare me the ‘family provider’ act.”
His face hardened.
“Oh, now we bring that up, do we?” he sneered. “How am I to keep up with my accomplished wife?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Enough, Eleanor. I’m going to bed.” He cut me off and left me staring at a cold cake and dying candles.
I blew them out, whispering to myself that it would get better. He was my husband. I loved him. All marriages have rough patches—so they say.
How wrong I was to forgive so easily.
Thomas and I had been married three years, but the last had been a slow, agonising unraveling. We had no children—small mercies, in hindsight. My work as a marketing director carried us, while Thomas, a salesman, complained endlessly about stress, long hours, the commute… anything but the truth I would learn too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I came home early with a splitting headache, desperate for bed. But as I pulled up to our house on the outskirts of Manchester, something was amiss. The brass door handle and lock now gleamed silver.
I tried my key. It didn’t fit.
Confused, I checked the address. This was undeniably my home.
Then I saw the note taped to the door—Thomas’s handwriting cutting through me: “This isn’t your home anymore. Find somewhere else.”
The world spun. My blood turned to ice.
“What the hell?” I hammered on the door, screaming his name.
The door swung open. Thomas stood there, smirking. Behind him, a woman—Emily—lounged in my cashmere dressing gown, a gift from my mother.
“Are you serious?” My voice shook with fury.
“Listen, Eleanor,” he crossed his arms. “I’ve moved on. Emily and I are together now. This place is ours. Go stay with someone else.”
Emily sauntered forward, hands on hips.
“Your things are in boxes in the garage. Take them and go.”
Stunned, I turned on my heel and marched to my car, resolve hardening. They thought they could discard me like rubbish and walk away unscathed. But I wasn’t finished. I needed a plan—precise, decisive.
I knew just where to go.
My sister Charlotte’s door flew open. “Good Lord, Eleanor—what’s happened?” She dragged me inside as I dissolved into tears.
By the time I finished, Charlotte was seething. “That bastard! And Emily had the gall to wear your dressing gown?”
“The one Mum gave me last birthday.”
Charlotte thrust a glass of wine into my hand. “Drink. Then we plot their ruin.”
“What can I do? The house is in Thomas’s name—the mortgage was his because my credit was still recovering after my master’s.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who paid for everything else?”
“I—we both did, but…” My voice trailed off.
“Precisely!” Charlotte’s grin turned wolfish. “What does Thomas own besides four walls?”
Scrolling through my banking app, I found every receipt, every transaction.
“I have all the proof. I’ve always kept records.”
“Of course, Miss Meticulous!” Charlotte laughed.
For the first time that wretched day, I felt strength return.
“They think they’ve won, don’t they?”
Charlotte clinked her glass to mine. “They have no idea what’s coming.”
The next morning, I met with my solicitor friend Victoria over tea.
“What he did was illegal,” she said flatly. “Even if the house is his, he can’t lock you out. You’ve every right to be there.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I said firmly. “But I will take what’s mine.”
By noon, we had a list: every sofa, lamp, appliance—even the carpets. All receipts, all dates.
“Legally, you’re entitled to take it,” Victoria confirmed. “Though I’d bring a constable to avoid trespass claims.”
I thought of Thomas’s smug face. Emily in my gown. Their arrogance.
“No,” I said slowly. “I’ve a better idea.”
That afternoon, I hired a removal firm. The owner, Nigel, listened to my story and nodded.
“We’ve seen this before. Last year, a woman caught her husband in bed with his secretary.”
“I want them home when it happens,” I told him.
I waited until Saturday.
When the removal vans arrived, I knocked. Thomas answered, stunned.
“Hello, darling,” I smiled sweetly. “I’ve come for my things.”
Before he could react, burly men streamed past him, stripping the house bare.
The fridge—unplugged, food dumped in a box.
The dishwasher—wrenched mid-cycle, soapy water sloshing onto the floor.
The bed they’d shared—dismantled and hauled away.
My chest of drawers, the telly, my beloved settee—gone.
Best of all? Emily was drying her hair with my hairdryer. I yanked it from her hands.
“Sorry, love. This was a gift from my mother. Back when Thomas was still my husband.”
“You can’t take everything!” Thomas shouted, chasing the movers.
“Oh, but I can.” I produced my folder of receipts. “Unlike you, I pay for my things.”
He gaped, wordless.
“And just so you know—changing the locks while I’m still legally resident? That’s unlawful. I could drag you through court. But honestly?” I glanced at the hollow shell of the house. “This is far more satisfying.”
Emily shrieked something, but I was already leaving. The vans rolled away.
In my rearview mirror, I glimpsed them standing in the doorway—crushed, humiliated, powerless.
Sometimes I wonder if I was too harsh.
Then I remember the note on the door. Their arrogance. My lonely birthday.
And I know—I did exactly what needed doing.
