I’m Moving Out. I’ll Leave the Keys to Your Apartment Under the Doormat,” Wrote My Husband

“I’m leaving. I’ll leave the keys to your flat under the mat,” her husband texted.

“Not this again, Emily! How many times?” His voice was sharp, every syllable tight with frustration. “Every penny counts, and you’re fussing over a new coat? What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?”

“It’s not about being fussy, Daniel. It’s seven years old. Seven! I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at work has updated their wardrobe three times over, and I’m stuck looking like I’m from another decade. Dont I deserve one bloody coat?”

“Of course you *deserve* it,” Daniel snapped, throwing his hands up, his face twisted in that same familiar scowl. “Just not now. You know the projects on fireall the moneys tied up. Once the deal closes, Ill buy you a mink coat if you want. But for now, just wait.”

“Ive been waiting twenty years, Daniel. My whole life with you has been waiting. First, it was until you finished uni. Then until we saved for your first car. Then this flator rather, the renovations, because it came from *my* parents. Theres always something more important than me.”

Emily startled herself with her own words. Normally, she swallowed her bitterness, made tea to calm down. But tonight, something inside her cracked. She stared at himonce the man she loved, now just a stranger with tired, resentful eyes.

“Here we go,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket. “The pity party. I dont have time for this. Ive got a meeting.”

“A meeting at nine in the evening?” she asked softly, though she already knew. These *meetings* had grown frequent in the last six months.

“A *business* meeting, Emily! Not all of us clock out at five to breathe in library dust. Some of us actually work so people like you can dream about coats.”

The door slammed so hard the china rattled in the old cabinet. Emily flinched, standing frozen in the hallway. The silence after he left was deafening, thick as treacle. Mechanically, she filled the kettle, hands shakingnot from anger, but from a hollow, gnawing emptiness. She *knew* there was no meeting. Knew about the other womanyoung, bright, from his office. Shed refused to believe it, but the thought kept circling like a stubborn fly.

Her phone buzzed in her dressing gown pocket. Probably an apology. Another *”Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk when Im back.”* She pulled it out. Daniels name. But the words were different.

*”Im leaving. Ill leave the keys to your flat under the mat.”*

Eight words. Short, brutal, like an axe swung straight at her. She read them once, twice, a third time. The letters blurred. It couldnt be real. Some cruel joke. He wouldnt do this, not after twenty years. Not just vanish with a text.

She tore into the bedroom. The wardrobe gaped openhis side nearly empty. His best suits, shirts, jumpers, gone. A forgotten tie lay abandoned on the shelf. His watch and phone charger missing. Hed packed in advance. The coat argument had just been the excuse.

Her legs gave way. She sank onto the bed, breathless, staring at the hollow space where his clothes had been. Twenty years. Her entire adult life. Theyd met at uni, married right after graduation. Lived in this flat, which her parents left her. Theyd painted walls, picked furniture, dreamed of children who never came. She worked at the local library; he built his little business. Life wasnt perfect, but it was *theirs*. And now hed erased it all with one message.

She called Sophie, her only real friend.

“Soph hes gone,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Whos gone? Where?” Sophie mumbled, still half-asleep. “Emily, whats happened?”

“Daniel. He left. For good. Texted that hes moving out.”

Silence. Then

“That *bastard*!” Sophies voice turned razor-sharp. “I *told* you his late-night meetings were dodgy! Look, dont panic. Hell crawl back. They always do.”

“No, Soph. He took his things.”

“*Everything*?”

“Almost. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”

“Christ” Sophie exhaled. “Right. Stay put. Im coming over. Get wine. Nogin. Were fixing this.”

Sophie arrived in forty minutes, arms full of groceries and a bottle of gin. She stormed into the kitchen, slamming cheese, crisps, and lemon onto the table.

“Talk. What set him off?”

Emily, steadier now, told her about the coat, his constant irritation, the icy distance between them for months.

“Classic,” Sophie muttered, pouring gin. “Found himself some young thing and decided hes too good for you now. Midlife crisis, plain as day.”

They drank. The gin burned, warmth spreading through Emilys veins.

“What do I do, Soph? How do I live?”

“You *live*, Em. First, change the locks. Tomorrow. No chances. Second, divorce him and take half his crap. He had that little window-fitting business, yeah?”

“Y-yes. But its all in his name. The car too.”

“Perfect. Half is yours. Let his new girl enjoy him showing up with a suitcase.”

They talked until dawn. Sophie ranted about revenge; Emily just stared, numb.
Morning came. Sophie left for work; Emily stayed in the empty flat. Silence pressed in. Every creak of the floor sounded like his footsteps. His dressing gown still hung on the kitchen chair. She buried her face in it, inhaling his scent, and sobbed like a child.

Days blurred. She called in sick, claimed flu. Lay on the sofa, barely eating, barely sleeping. No calls. No texts. As if hed never existed.

On the third day, she forced herself to call a locksmith. The man clucked at the old lock, replaced it in half an hour.

“All yours now,” he said, handing her new keys.

She started clearing his leftover thingsold T-shirts, socks, a toolbox on the balcony. In the loft, she found a cardboard box labelled *”Docs. Daniel.”* She dragged it down. Inside, beneath old invoices, lay the deed to *her* flat. And beneath thata loan agreement. Signed by Daniel three years ago. A massive sum. And the collateral?

*Her flat.*

Her hands trembled. How? He couldnt mortgage it without her consentit was *hers*. She kept reading. Attached was a copy of her passport and a power of attorney. Giving him full rights over her property.

Her signature. But she didnt remember signing it.

Then it hit her. Three years ago, hed said he needed capital for the business. Brought home a stack of papers*”Just tax stuff, sign here.”* Shed trusted him. Signed without looking.

She called him. No answer. Texted: *”Whats this loan agreement? You mortgaged MY flat?”*

His reply came half an hour later. Cold.

*”None of your business. Ill handle it.”*

*”It IS my business! You had NO RIGHT!”*

*”I had the power of attorney. Stay out of it.”*

She called Sophie again, voice shaking.

“Soph, its worsehe *mortgaged* the flat.”

“*HE WHAT?!*” Sophie roared. “Thats not just bastardry, thats *fraud*! Listenno tears. You need a solicitor. A *good* one. I know someone.”

An hour later, Sophie sent a number. Emily hesitated. Shame and fear twisted inside her. But the thought of losing her home was worse.

James Whitmore wasnt the grey-haired old barrister shed imagined, but a man in his forties with steady grey eyes. His office was small, tidy.

“Emily, tell me what happened.”

She did, showing him the documents. He studied them, nodding.

“Right. The power of attorney looks valid. The loan, too. He used your flat as collateral. Repayments due in two months. If he doesnt pay, the lender can take the flat.”

“So I could lose my home?”

“Technically, yes. But its not hopeless. We can argue you were misleddidnt understand what you signed. Its called an *unconscionable bargain*. Tough, but possible.”

“Is there another way?”

“Only if he repays. Have you spoken to him?”

“He said to stay out of it.”

James frowned. “Right. First, Ill send him a formal demand for repayment. That might shake him. Meanwhile, well build a case to void the loan. Times tight, but weve got a shot.”

Leaving his office, Emily felt lighter. For the