«Pack my things, my Emily is waiting for me,» the man declared triumphantly as he prepared to meet his lover. But his wife only smileda sly, knowing smile.
Alistair stood in the middle of the parlor, chest puffed out like a soldier after a hard-won battle. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and announced with theatrical gravitas:
«Pack my things, Margaret. My Emily is waiting.»
His voice trembled with anticipation. His eyes burned with the thrill of liberation. Finally, he had done it. Summoned the courage. Broken free from the cage of dreary routines, from the weight of their «respectable marriage,» from his wifes heavy gazethat quiet, knowing stare that seemed to see everything yet said nothing.
Margaret sat on the settee, unmoving. An open notebook rested in her lap, her pen frozen mid-sentence. Slowly, she lifted her head. Her expression was serene, almost gentle. Then she smiled.
Not bitterly. Not resentfully. Not broken.
Like a cat that had backed a mouse into a corner.
«Very well, Alfie,» she said softly, almost sweetly. «I’ll pack them. But are you certain you want to take them with you?»
He snorted, already striding toward the wardrobe.
«Of course! Theyre mine. Ive every right.»
«Yes, of course,» Margaret nodded, closing her notebook. «Youve every right. Only are you quite sure you remember where they are?»
Alistair turned, frowning.
«What nonsense is this? In the wardrobe, where else?»
«Well,» she shrugged, her voice light, «I only wanted to be certain. Because, you see, your phones been in the repair shop for a week now. Still there.»
«What phone?»
«Your main one. The one with your SIM card. The messages. The photos. Everything.»
«But I have a spare!»
«You do. But you never texted Emily from it. Not once. All your messagestheyre on the main phone. And its still in the shop. For another fortnight. Under warranty.»
Alistair froze.
«How do you»
«And this,» Margaret stood, gliding to the bookshelf and retrieving a small flash drive, «is called a backup. I made it a month ago. When I noticed you mentioning your colleague Emily far too often.»
Alistair paled.
«You read my messages?»
«No,» she replied calmly. «I simply saved them. Just in case. To prove, if needed, that you systematically lied to your wife, cheated, planned an escape, and spent our shared money on another woman. I have it all. Every word. Every transfer. Even the receipts from the restaurant where you dined with her last Friday.»
«Thats private!» he shouted. «You had no right!»
«And did you have the right to spend our money on another woman?» she asked evenly. «On our future? On our flat, which you planned to sell to buy her a house?»
He recoiled.
«How do you know about the house?»
«Because I visited the estate agent. Posing as a buyer. I heard you discussing the dealhow you were divorcing, how your wife was unhinged, how you needed a fresh start.»
Alistair sank onto the edge of the settee, his head spinning.
«Youve been following me?»
«No. Ive simply been wherever you were. At workI came as a client. At the caféI sat at the next table. In the parkI walked the dog (yours, incidentally, whom you conveniently forgot in your new life). I knew it all. Every step. Every lie.»
«Why?» he whispered. «Why didnt you say anything?»
«Why would I?» Margaret smiled. «I needed time. To gather everything. To be certain. To let you reach this pointthe point of no return. Where youd say, Im leaving. Because thats when the game begins.»
«What game?»
«Mine,» she answered softly.
A month earlier, Margaret had noticed the first sign. Not a photo or a letterjust a scent. Strange perfume on his shirt. Light, floral, not hers. She didnt scream or make a scene. She simply looked into his eyes and knewhe was lying.
Then came the little things. Missing evenings. «Meetings with friends.» Late nights at the office. His phone, always off. He grew sharp, restless, yet oddly happylike a man tasting freedom at last.
Margaret didnt weep. She watched. Then she acted.
Firstthe digital trail. She knew his passwords. Not from spying, but because there had once been trust between them. Hed never changed them. Never imagined she might look.
And she had.
There was everything.
Messages hidden under «Work.» Photos. Confessions. Plans. «When will you leave her?» «I want your child.» «Sell the flatwell buy a house by the lake.»
Emily. His colleague. Ten years younger. Smiling, hopeful. She believed Alistair was her salvation.
Margaret felt no rage, no despair. Only icy clarity: he was ready to ruin everything for an illusion. But she would not be his victim.
She gathered proof. Methodically. Like a scientist preparing an experiment. Messages. Photos. Locations. Bank statementshed been transferring money to Emily, calling them «business expenses.» Hed even rented her a flat. With Margarets money.
She recorded. Archived. Waited. Until he said, «Im leaving.» Because only then would the law be on her side.
«So,» Margaret said, stepping toward the window, «packing your things? Go ahead. The wardrobes there. But know thisI wont hand over what was bought with our shared money. Clothes? Take them. Shoes? Yours. But the laptop, the tablet, the watch you got for your birthdaythey stay. Theyre marital assets.»
«But theyre mine!»
«No. Theyre shared property. Youll get your sharethrough the courts. Till then, everything stays.»
«You cant do this!»
«I can. I have a solicitor. Proof of your infidelitynot a crime, but it weighs in court. Witnesses to your cruelty. Even recordings where you call me mad.»
«That was a joke!»
«Not to a judge. Especially with records showing you sought therapy for your toxic wife.»
Alistair paled, the ground shifting beneath him.
«You planned all this?»
«No. I was simply prepared. You laid the foundation for your own ruin.»
The next day, he tried to leave. Packed a bag, took only essentials. But at the door stood a solicitor.
«Mr. Atwood,» the man said, «your wife has filed for asset division. All marital property is temporarily frozen. You may remove only personal effects. Anything else constitutes theft.»
«Youre joking!»
«No. Heres the court order.»
Alistair turned. Margaret stood in the bedroom doorwaycalm, sipping tea, wrapped in an old dressing gown.
«I warned you,» she said. «You cant just run. There are rules. And you broke them.»
He went to Emily. She was waiting. A new flat. Dinner. Flowers. She rushed to him.
«Youre free?» she whispered.
«Almost,» he muttered. «But Margaret shes scheming. Wont let me take my things. Threatens court.»
Emily frowned.
«Are you sure you want this? Maybe you should talk to her? Save your marriage?»
«What? Youre changing your mind?»
«No, but I dont want to be the reason you lose everything. You said she belittled you, controlled you. What if shes just defending herself?»
«Youre taking her side?!»
«Im not taking sides. Im just afraid you havent been honest. That Im part of your escapenot your new love.»
He left. No dinner. No embrace. No hope.
A week later, he returned home. The flat was the sameonly colder. Emptier. His things waited in boxes by the door.
«Take them,» Margaret said. «But rememberif you file for divorce, Ill demand compensation. I have proof of your income and your spending on another woman. The courts will side with me.»
«But we have no children!»
«No. But theres emotional harm. And the courts may award damages. Especially with this evidence.»
She handed him a printouthis messages with Emily. «My wife is dull, cold, old. I suffocate with her.»
«You printed these?»
«Fifteen copies. For court. For your employer. For the tax officethose undeclared transfers. And one for Emily.»
«What?!»
«Shes already read them. She wrote to me: Im sorry. I didnt know.»
Alistair sank to the floor.
«Youve destroyed me.»
«No,» Margaret said quietly. «You destroyed yourself. I just held up the mirror.»
Three months passed.
Alistair stayed in the flatnot because Margaret forgave him, but because he had nowhere else to go. He barely kept his jobhis manager had called him in after «that letter.» Emily vanished. His reputation, money, careerall crumbling.
Margaret, meanwhile, began to live. Studied. Took up yoga. Smiledgenuinely. They lived under one roof like neighbors. Sometimes even like people who had once loved each other.
One evening, he asked:
«Why havent you filed for divorce?»
She gazed out the window.
«Because I dont need your suffering. I needed you to understand. What its liketo be betrayed. Abandoned. Used. Now you know.»
«I never meant to hurt you.»
«And I never meant to lose myself. I didnt. I grew stronger. You you broke. Not because of me. Because of your own lies.»
One morning, he left. For good. Without a word. Without demands. Simply gone.
A week later, Margaret received a letter.
«Margaret,
I dont know how to ask forgiveness.
I was blind. Selfish. A fool.
I thought love was escape. New thrills.
But you showed me: love is honesty and trust.
You didnt take revenge. You made me see myself.
Thank you.
Im leaving. Not to her. To myself.
Goodbye.
Alistair.»
Margaret read it. Folded it. Placed it in a box of memories. She didnt throw it away. But she didnt treasure it either.
She stepped onto the balcony. The sun shone brightly. Children laughed below. Life went on.
She smiled. Not slyly. Peacefully. Freely.
A year later, Margaret opened a small consultancy for marital advice. Helped women whod been betrayed. Not for revenge. For love of themselves.
When asked, «What do I do if my husband leaves for another?» she answered:
«Dont pack his things. Let him decide what matters to him.
You pack yourself.
Because the most precious thingis you.»
Five years on, Alistair saw Margaret by chance in the park. She walked with a man, laughing, a childs hand in hers.
He wanted to stop. To speak. But he couldnt.
He only watched her live.
And understood: he hadnt lost a wife.
Hed lost a future.
And shehad found hers.
