Emily returned home to find her belongings stuffed into black bin bags.
“No, youd better explain this,” she demanded, arms crossed, glaring at the monstrous cream leather sofa swallowing their once-cozy living room. “The old one was perfectly fine!”
“Fine?” David scoffed, eyes glued to his phone. “It was fifteen years old, Em. The springs were poking through, the fabric was threadbare. You complained about guests having to sleep on it!”
“I complained it needed reupholstering! Not replacing with this this overpriced monstrosity! We were supposed to be saving for the bathroom renovation!”
“I decided the living room was more important. We cant live like were stuck in the past. Look at itItalian leather, designer craftsmanship.”
“Italian? David, we live in a council flat in Croydon, not a bloody palazzo in Rome! And where did you even get the money? You said your bonus was cut.”
He finally looked up, his stare cold and detached. A shiver ran down her spine. She hadnt seen that expression in years.
“Found it,” he said flatly. “Dont worry, I didnt take out loans. Consider it a gift to the family.”
“A gift no one asked for! You just bulldozed melike always lately!”
She stormed to the bedroom, barely resisting the urge to slam the door. The last few months had been walking on eggshellsDavid distant, always at “meetings,” answering in monosyllables. She told herself it was a midlife crisis, work stress, something temporary. Just ride it out.
She sank onto the edge of their bed, scanning the familiar roomthe vanity David had built her twenty years ago, her embroidered wall hanging, the armchair where she read. Just a sofa, she reasoned. Theyd survive. Maybe he meant well.
She opened the wardrobe. The right sideher sidewas empty. Only a few bare hangers swung. Her pulse spiked. She yanked open the drawers. Empty. The next one, too.
Cold dread crawled up her throat. Then she saw themthree bulging bin bags by the balcony door. She tore one open. Her favourite blue dress, crumpled, smelling of mothballs. Beneath it, her dressing gown, then the jumper her mother had knitted.
The door creaked open. David stood there, face blank.
“What is this?” she whispered.
“Your things,” he said calmly.
“I see that. Why are they in bin bags? Planning a deep clean?”
“Call it that,” he smirked, an ugly twist of his lips. “Ive made packing easier for you.”
“Packing? For what?”
“Youre leaving. Today.”
The room tilted. She gripped the dresser. “What?”
“Our marriage is over. Ive met someone else. I want a new life. Without you.”
*Someone else.* The words slapped her. Twenty-five yearstheir wedding, bringing baby Oliver home, painting these walls togetherreduced to bin bags.
“Twenty-five years,” she choked. “And you just throw me out?”
“Dont be dramatic. They were good years, but theyre done. People change. I dont love you anymore.”
Each word shattered something inside her. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“You have Oliver. Stay with him. The flats in my nameyou know it was my parents. No claim there. Ill file for divorce. No alimonyyoure fit to work. So”
“Get out,” she hissed.
He blinked, then nodded. “Fine. Call a cab for your things. Ill leave cash on the side.”
The door clicked shut. She collapsed among the scattered clothes, hollowed out. Later, mechanically, she packed a suitcasedocuments, photo albums, a few books. Not the bin bag stuff. That life was over.
Oliver answered on the first ring. “Mum? You okay?”
“Can I stay with you? Just for a while”
“Of course! Whats happened? Did Dad?”
“He threw me out,” she burst, crumbling into sobs.
“Right. Listen. Call a cab, come now. Dont talk to him. Just leave.”
Hanging up, she felt a sliver of relief. She wasnt alone.
David sat on the new sofa, watching telly. Didnt even glance up as she dragged the bin bags past. The cash on the sideboardpayment for disposal. She left it.
Olivers cramped flat in Camden was a sanctuary. He hugged her fiercely, brewed peppermint tea, hung her clothes in his own wardrobe. “Youre home,” he said.
The days blurred. She drank tea, stared at walls. Then her best friend, Claire, barged in like a hurricane.
“Enough moping,” she declared, slapping a notepad down. “Action plan. Firstdivorce. The flats his, but the car? Bought during marriage?”
Emily nodded.
“Half yours. The holiday cottage too. My solicitors the bestappointment tomorrow. And dont say you dont want anything! Twenty-five years of your life!”
Claire dragged her to the park, made her wear lipstick. “Look at youbeautiful! Lifes not over at forty-nine. Davids an idiot trading gold for tinsel.”
The solicitor was brisk, confident. “Hell bluster, threaten, lowball you. Stand firm. The laws on your side.”
That night, she told Oliver, “Im signing up for accounting courses. Then job hunting.”
He beamed. “Thats my mum.”
David called a month later, furious. “Court summons? Whats this?”
“Civilised is discussing things, not bin-bagging your wife,” she said coolly. “I want whats mine.”
“You? I supported you for twenty-five years!”
“I workedwife, mother, housekeeper. No sick days. That work *counts*.”
The court battle was brutal. David brought witnesses calling her a spendthrift, a slob. But Claires solicitor dismantled them. She won half the cars value, a share of the cottage. Enough for a tiny flat.
Work came nexta junior accountant in a cramped office with women her age. Modest pay, but *hers*.
She found a flatsmall, hers. Oliver helped assemble the furniture. Over tea and cake, he grinned. “New life, Mum.”
Months later, she bumped into David outside her building. He looked haggard.
“EmilyOlesya left me. Said I was too old.” His voice cracked. “Can I come up? Just to talk?”
She studied himthe pleading eyes, the greying temples. Remembered the bin bags. The indifference.
“No, David. That lifes over.”
She stepped inside, shut the door. She didnt know what came next. But shed never let anyone pack her into a bin bag again.
