Husband Took a Week Away with His Mistress to “Re-educate” His Wife; Returned to Find a Shocking Surprise in the Corridor

Ian drove off for a week to his lovers flat, hoping to reeducate his wife. He came back to find a new reality waiting in the hallway.

Ian was lounging on the sofa, phone glued to his hand, frantic thumbs typing away. His face was tight, eyebrows knit. Emma was used to evenings like this Ian could sit for hours scrolling, ignoring every question and oblivious to the world around him.

Ian, are you coming to dinner? Emma asked, moving away from the window.

Later, he muttered, not even looking up.

Emma sighed and drifted into the kitchen. They lived in her twobedroom flat in Camden, a legacy from her parents. Her father had died five years earlier, her mother two years after that. The flat was put in Emmas name while her parents were still alive to avoid a lengthy probate. When Emma and Ian married, he moved in with her sensible, since renting in London was pricey, and the flat was spacious and handy.

The first few years were smooth. Ian worked as a project manager for a construction firm, Emma taught at a primary school. They strolled through Regents Park, took weekend trips out of the city, made plans together. Then things shifted. Ian grew snappier, picking on the tiniest details.

Why did you buy that yoghurt? Ian asked, opening the fridge. I told you I dont like that flavour.

You never said anything, Emma replied calmly. Ill pick a different one next time.

Typical, you always do it your way! Ian snapped, slamming the fridge door.

Emma had no idea where the irritation was coming from. Hed never complained about yoghurt before, but now every little thing sparked a grievance.

Their relationship grew strained. Ian kept insisting Emma was too independent, that she made decisions without his input where to holiday, what to buy for the home, who to meet on the weekend. All of that set Ians teeth on edge.

You didnt even ask my opinion! he fumed when Emma mentioned shed bought tickets to a West End show for Saturday.

I told you Id suggested that play a month ago, Emma said, surprised. You even said it might be nice to go.

But you should have confirmed the date! Ian insisted. I might have other plans on Saturday.

What plans? Emma asked. You were going to lie on the sofa and watch telly.

Ian flushed and stormed out, slamming the door. Emma stood in the living room, bewildered. Hed once loved surprises; now any initiative from her set him off.

Things came to a head over his motherinlaw. Margaret Whitaker lived in a tidy semidetached house on the outskirts. She called often, inviting Ian over. Ian visited every weekend, Emma kept him company. Lately, the trips felt like chores.

Margaret was constantly complaining about her health, asking for help with the garden, fixing the fence, clearing out the loft. Ian silently obliged, while Emma helped around the house. Weekends turned into workdays, and by Sunday evening they were exhausted.

Ian, maybe we should stay home this weekend? Emma suggested one Thursday. Im tired, just want a break.

What do you mean, stay home? Ian snapped. Mums expecting us.

She expects us every week, Emma replied, weary. We could go next weekend.

No, Ian snapped. Well go on Saturday, as usual.

But I dont want to, Emma said firmly. I just want to stay in and rest.

Ian rose slowly, his face flushing, fists clenching.

So youre refusing to visit my mother?

Im not refusing forever, Emma tried to explain. Just one weekend. You can go alone if you wish.

Alone?! Ian exploded. Do you realise my mother is your family too? Youre supposed to see her with me!

Ian, please dont shout, Emma pleaded. We can discuss this calmly.

Theres nothing to discuss! he roared. Youve become completely uncontrollable! Doing whatever you like, ignoring everyone! You think because the flat is yours you can boss me around?

Emma froze. For the first time in their marriage, Ian mentioned the flat. His irritation wasnt just about the motherinlaw; he felt uneasy living in a place that wasnt his.

Ive never tried to boss you, Ian, Emma said quietly. And the flat isnt the issue.

Everything is the issue! Ian shouted. Im just a guest here! Maybe I should leave so you realise how empty it feels without me!

Everyone is free to do as they wish, Emma replied evenly.

Ian stared at her, expecting tears, pleas, an apology. Emma stood, arms crossed, her composure intact. Inside she felt a sting of hurt, but she wouldnt show weakness.

So what? You dont care? Ian hissed through clenched teeth. You think it doesnt matter to you?

I never said it didnt matter, Emma said. But threats wont change anything.

Thats not a threat! Ian barked. Ill stay elsewhere, maybe youll finally understand how terrible it is without me!

Emma felt her blood run cold. Elsewhere? Did he really have another woman? All those hours on his phone, the constant irritability, the avoidance of time together it all clicked into a grim picture.

Fine, she said simply.

Ian turned and trudged to the bedroom. Minutes later he reemerged with a bag, face hard, movements abrupt. Emma watched from the hallway as he stuffed belongings into the bag.

Lets see how you manage when youre on your own, Ian said, zipping the bag.

He thumped his coat on, grabbed the bag, and headed for the front door.

One week will be enough for you to get your head straight, he called over his shoulder as he slammed the door.

The knock echoed loud. Emma stayed in the hallway, the silence pressing against her ears. Her hands trembled, a hollow feeling settled inside. She slipped onto the sofa, the quiet finally a relief.

Ian really had gone to another woman to reeducate his wife, to prove she needed him. Emma stared at the empty space where his voice used to be, the lingering sting of hurt oddly lightened by the sudden calm. No more shouting, no more petty fights just peace.

Around ten that night her phone rang. It was her friend Olive.

Emma, how are you? Olive asked, concern in her tone.

Fine, Emma replied. Ians gone.

I saw him on the high street café, Olive said. He was with a woman. I thought I was seeing things, but then I recognised him.

Emma closed her eyes. So it wasnt just a threat he had really fled to his lover, making a spectacle of his lesson.

Olive, you hear me? she whispered.

Yes, I hear you. Thanks for telling me.

Do you want me to come over?

No, Im okay.

Are you sure?

Yes. Goodnight, Olive.

She hung up. Ian hadnt left to cool off; hed left to see his mistress, whom hed apparently been emailing for ages. All those secretive texts, the irritability now it all made sense.

Emma got up, opened the wardrobe and found half of Ians stuff still there shoes in the hallway, shirts on the hangers, his razor in the bathroom. Hed only taken the essentials, planning to return in a week, expecting a humbled, apologetic wife.

Instead, Emma grabbed the phone and called a locksmith shed found online, a 24hour service promising to be there within an hour.

Hello, good evening, a male voice answered.

Its Emma Collins. I need the frontdoor lock changed today. Can you come?

Certainly. Whats the address?

She gave the flats details. The locksmith promised to arrive in forty minutes. While waiting, Emma walked through the flat, noting what remained: his coat in the entryway, his books on the shelf, his toothbrush in the bathroom. He clearly intended to come back and pick up where he left off.

The locksmith arrived, a middleaged man with a toolbox. He inspected the old lock and suggested a new, more secure one. Emma agreed. While he worked, she slipped into the bedroom and began packing Ians belongings into two large suitcases shirts, jeans, shoes, books, a razor, a toothbrush. She moved methodically, trying not to think too much.

Done, the locksmith said, handing her a set of fresh keys. She paid, thanked him, and locked the new lock, pressing her back against the door. Ian would never get in again; the old keys were useless.

She returned to the bedroom, stared at the packed suitcases, and thought about taking them to the stairwell tomorrow for Ian to collect. For now, she just wanted to lie down and forget the day, the arguments, the threats.

She changed into her pajamas, climbed into bed, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be the first day without Ians constant nagging, his petty complaints, his endless criticism. Somehow that thought felt lighter.

The week passed oddly peacefully. Emma went to work, returned home, cooked simple meals for herself, spent evenings reading and watching series she never had time for. No one slammed doors, no one shouted about yoghurt or theatre tickets.

On Monday morning she wheeled Ians suitcases into the hallway, set them against the wall, and left a pile of his paperwork insurance policy, work certificates, old receipts for him to collect.

Neighbour Mrs. Patel from the ground floor stopped by the postboxes.

Emma, what are those suitcases doing here? she asked.

Ians things, Emma replied shortly.

Ah, I see, Mrs. Patel said with a sigh. Young people these days have lost their heads. They used to live together, didnt they?

Emma gave a polite smile and went on with her day. Lessons, paperwork, and class checks filled her schedule; nobody at work knew her flat was now empty, and that was oddly liberating.

That Tuesday evening Olive called again.

Emma, how are you? Has Ian gotten back in touch?

No, Emma said calmly. And I dont need to.

Got the suitcases taken?

Theyre still in the hallway.

So he hasnt returned yet, Olive mused. Maybe he really did go to his lover for good?

I dont care, Emma said. Let him live wherever he wants.

Olive laughed. Right. No point chasing after him. Hes on his own now.

Later that night Emma brewed herbal tea, sat by the window watching rain drizzle on the streets of Camden. Autumn was at its peak, the grey sky usually a source of melancholy, but now it felt soothing. No one was demanding her attention.

On Wednesday she popped into a corner shop after work, bought a modest amount of groceries a slice of cheese, a packet of pasta, some salad veg. Previously shed bought double for Ians appetite; now she bought just for herself.

Thursday and Friday slipped by similarly. She rose, got ready for work, didnt stumble over Ians shoes left in the hallway, returned to a clean kitchen, and read before bed without the background snore of a sleeping husband.

Saturday she tackled a deep clean: scrubbing floors, dusting, washing laundry. By evening the flat glimmered. She took a shower, brewed coffee, and sank into the sofa with a novel as the street lights flicked on.

Meanwhile, Ian was lounging in his lovers flat, nursing a glass of whisky.

Youll hear from her in a week, he said smugly to himself. Emma will realise she cant manage without me.

His mistress, a fitness club receptionist named Chloe, listened halfinterested. Shed met Ian three months earlier when he bought a gym membership. Their flirtation grew from a few cafés to a weekend stay. Now Ian was living there for a week to teach his wife a lesson.

What if she doesnt call? Chloe asked, scrolling her phone.

She will, Ian claimed. Shes used to me being around. She wont pay the rent or change the lightbulb without me. Shell ring, begging.

Chloe shrugged; she didnt care whether Emma called or not. As the week wound down, Ian grew bored of the constant complaining about Emma, the endless tirades about how she behaved. Chloe was fed up.

On Sunday evening Ian packed his bag and headed home, convinced Emma would be a wreck, ready to apologize and promise to change. He imagined herself waiting at the door, tears in her eyes, him offering forgiveness. He pictured a grand reconciliation.

The bus dropped him outside a familiar block. He climbed the stairs to his flat, fumbled for his key, turned it nothing. The lock wouldnt budge. He tried again, the same result. He yanked the key, cursed.

Bloody hell, Ian muttered, stepping back to look at the door. The number was right, but the lock was new, shiny, clearly different. Emma had changed it.

He glanced down and saw his two suitcases stacked neatly by the hallway wall, his own documents poking out the insurance policy, work certificates, old bills.

Ian stood there, stunned, trying to make sense of it all. Emma had packed his stuff, taken it to the stairwell, replaced the lock. She wasnt waiting.

He rang the doorbell. A soft chime chimed. No answer. He rang again. Same silence. It was clear Emma was home but not opening.

Natalie! he shouted, pounding on the door. Open up! Im back!

Silence. He pounded harder.

Natalie, stop this nonsense! Open the door!

From the flat next door, footsteps approached. The door swung open and Mrs. Patel appeared, smiling.

Better late than never, soldier, she said. Lessons over.

What? Ian blurted.

I say, youve had your week. Now sort yourself out, Mrs. Patel said, chuckling. Emmas done the lock change. Youve earned a spot on the doorstep.

She vanished back into her flat, leaving Ian standing on the landing, the reality sinking in. He grabbed his phone, dialed Emma. Long, angry rings, then a busy tone. He tried again the same. Emma was ignoring his calls. He typed a message: Open the door. We need to talk. It showed as read, no reply.

Open up, Natalie! he yelled again. Enough of this childishness!

No response. He sat on the suitcase, his hands shaking, his mind a jumble. Emma had taken the steps to protect herself, to move on.

He tried calling again, each attempt meeting a dead line. He sent another text: Sorry, I was wrong. Lets talk. Read, no reply.

He sat there, the hallway echoing, realizing there was nowhere left for him to go. The flat hed tried to reeducate was now a locked fortress of his own making.

Across the hall, Emma was in the kitchen, a mug of tea in hand, hearing his muffled cries. She didnt move. The rain drummed against the windows, the autumn wind rustling the leaves outside. No one was demanding her independence any longer.

The next day Ian tried to retrieve his belongings. Emma told him the suitcases were in the stairwell, take them when you like. He asked to meet, she said no. He tried to phone again; she blocked his number. He eventually gave up.

A month later Emma filed for divorce. With no children and the flat legally hers, there was nothing to split. The decree came a few weeks later. Ian tried to negotiate, sending messages through mutual friends, begging for a second chance, but Emma was steadfast. The man whod tried to teach his wife a lesson was now left with his own choices.

Six months passed. Emma settled into a single life she enjoyed: work, friends, weekend trips to the countryside. No one scolded her for being independent, no motherinlaw demands, no yoghurt dramas.

Olive visited one afternoon, eyes bright.

Emma, youre glowing! she exclaimed, pouring tea. Its been ages since I saw you so happy.

Because I finally live for myself, Emma smiled. Im not trying to please anyone, Im not tolerating guilt trips.

Is Ian still trying to get in touch?

No. He vanished after the divorce. Heard hes renting a flat out in the suburbs. With Chloe? That fell apart she threw him out after two weeks.

Olive laughed. What a lesson. He tried to teach you, but ended up with a broken mop.

Emma shrugged. Ians fate no longer mattered. Hed made his choice; now he faced the consequences.

That evening, after Olive left, Emma returned to the window with a fresh cup of tea. Rain pattered, leaves clung to the pavement. Autumns chill no longer felt sad, only calm. She took a sip, smiled, and thought of the week Ian had tried to reeducate her. It backfired spectacularly. Shed learned how blissful life could be without endless arguments, accusations, and manipulation.

And that, she realised, was the most valuable lesson of all.