— No, Dave, what’s she gonna do? My wife’s like a wooden statue, she doesn’t give a toss. Don’t worry, I’ve already found a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, two grocery bags in each hand. The keys were still jangling in the lock— I hadn’t even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a promotional pack of buckwheat, and three plain, sugar‑free yoghurts for Tommy – he only likes the white ones. I was already wondering whether I’d have time to defrost the meat or if I’d end up tossing frozen chunks into the pan and end up steaming it instead of frying.
Dave was standing with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mug— his instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washed up after himself.
— She won’t notice a thing, — he kept going, slurping from the mug. — I’ll say it’s paperwork for the transfer, you’ll sign. She trusts me. She’s wooden. No feelings, no character. The housekeeper’s on the house.
He laughed. I recognised that laugh— the one he used with the mates in the garage while I was washing the dishes after their get‑togethers. The same laugh when Tommy fell off his bike as a kid and I ran with a bottle of antiseptic while Dave just stood there saying, “What, you acting like a hen? Let him get up on his own.”
My ears rang, like before a blood pressure spike. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the cling‑film digging into my palms until they went white. I set the groceries down slowly, fished my phone out and hit record.
From the kitchen came a mumble— Dave was already chatting with Serge about fishing hooks and a trip to the lake tomorrow. He always does that: first he spits out the poison, then he moves on to nonsense as if nothing’s happened, as if I’m actually a wooden block.
I held the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and waited until he said goodbye to Serge and promised to “wrap up the deal next week”.
Then Dave hung up, stomped over to the fridge in his slippers. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed the bags and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the jamb.
A cold fire pressed on my throat— I wanted to scream or howl like a dog. Twenty‑four years of marriage. Tommy, school, university, his debts that I cleared with my own holiday pay. His mother, who I drove to the hospital three times a week right up to her death. His socks, the meatballs, the endless, “Love, where’s my blue shirt?”. And now I’m the wooden one. And there’s already a buyer.
I sat on the bed and stared at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I glanced at the wedding band— thin, worn. He’d given it to me when we were still sharing a council flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I wanted to fling it out the window, but I didn’t. I took a deep breath, just like Mum taught me: “Lucy, if someone hurts you, count to ten before you decide what to do.”
I counted to twenty. Then I got up, splashed my face with cold water, and pulled an old notebook from the drawer. I found the number for the local council office— the one I’d used when I arranged my mum’s disability claim.
A woman’s voice answered, explaining that a restriction on any registration actions could be placed online, but it’s better to come in person. I said I’d be there right away.
It was about three o’clock. Dave was banging around the kitchen— probably frying eggs. I slipped into the corridor and pulled on my coat.
— Where are you off to? — he asked without turning, the pan hissing.
— To the shop for some bread. Nothing for dinner, not a crumb.
— Oh, and grab me a packet of cigarettes too.
I left. The lift jolted as it rose. Not from fear, but from the realisation that I was finally doing something without his nod. For twenty‑four years I hadn’t made a single decision alone. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint decision until he’d sneered, “Beige is boring, we should have gone green.” I’d just kept quiet.
The council office was empty. A clerk behind a window stared at my paperwork for ages.
— Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without you being present, no one— not even a power of attorney— can sell, gift or swap the flat.
— Absolutely.
She hammered the keys. Fifteen minutes later I walked out with a slip of paper, slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat where the recorded phone sat.
I came home with a loaf and a packet of his favourite cigarettes. Dave was sprawled on the sofa watching an action film. I drifted into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. The pan still held the burnt bits of yesterday’s eggs. I washed it— habit.
Around seven, the doorbell rang. Dave leapt up, tugged off his t‑shirt.
— Oh, that’s for me. Love, put the kettle on, a nice person’s coming.
I nodded.
In walked a man in his fifties, wearing an expensive coat and carrying a briefcase. Dave’s face lit up.
— Meet Oliver Bennett, estate agent. About the flat, we’ve got a matter to settle.
I stepped out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel, and gave Dave a look— his self‑satisfied grin.
— Dave, remember you were on the phone with Serge earlier today?
He froze. The smile slipped off him like badly stuck wallpaper.
— What? Yeah… what’s that about?
— You called me a “wooden wife”. Said you’d already found a buyer for my flat and that I wouldn’t find out anything.
A beat. The agent shifted his weight. Dave’s face turned pale, his cheeks mottled.
— What are you on about, Love? — he started, but I raised my hand.
— No, stop. I heard everything. Here.
I pulled the phone out and played the recording. His voice filled the room: “My wife is a wooden one… I’ve already found a buyer… she trusts me… the housekeeper’s free…”
Oliver stepped back toward the door.
— Dave, you didn’t mention there were complications.
Dave stared at me like I was a stranger.
— You recorded me? Been watching me? — he hissed.
— I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages so you, Tommy and his girlfriend could have dinner. And you were out there selling my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. Mum’s.
He took a step toward me, but I kept my voice steady.
— Also, I went to the council today and placed a restriction on any dealings with the flat unless I’m there in person. So your buyer— — I nodded at Oliver — can look elsewhere. This flat isn’t for sale any more.
Oliver hesitated.
— I’ll be off then. Dave, let’s talk later. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
It was just the two of us. Dave stood in the middle of the room, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
— What have you done? You’ve ruined everything! We had plans!
— You had plans. I had faith. And you trampled it today, calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, Dave, and I’ve burned.
He flopped onto the sofa, clutching his head.
— Love, I’m sorry. It just slipped. I didn’t mean it… Serge pushed me…
— Serge, — I smirked, — of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, the man who spent twenty‑four years living off my money, drinking my tea, sleeping in my sheets and treating me like a piece of furniture.
I took off my ring and placed it on the coffee table.
— I’ll file for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with me— it’s Mum’s inheritance, you have no right. Pack your stuff within a week. I’ll tell Tommy myself; he’s an adult now.
— Lucy…
— No need. You have no idea how light I feel right now. For the first time in years I’m not thinking about what to cook. I’m thinking I actually have a home, and I have myself.
I slipped into the bedroom, shut the door, and the phone buzzed with a message from a friend: “How was your day?”
I replied, “Great. I’ve stopped being a wooden block.”
Morning came at seven. Instead of scrambling to make tea for Dave, I stretched, threw on a robe and brewed coffee—for myself. Ground beans, a dash of cinnamon. Dave only ever drinks instant. I’ve always loved real coffee.
He shuffled out of the room, a crumpled look on his face, and stared at the Turkish‑style pot in my hand.
— What about me?
— Dave, you’re going to need a new housekeeper. Wooden ones sometimes sprout legs.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorchingly hot. My hands still trembled, and the mug clanged against my teeth. It was the best cup I’d ever tasted, because I’d made it just for me.
There was a knock at the door. I set the cup down and opened it. Standing there was Oliver Bennett again, no briefcase this time, just an apologetic look.
— Sorry for the early visit. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but he didn’t say… I’d like to offer my services as an agent, should you ever want to buy, sell or rent anything. Really, no strings attached.
I stared at him, stunned. From the kitchen Dave peeked out, his face twisted in frustration.
— What are you doing here? — he barked.
— Working, — Oliver replied calmly. — I’ve got a new client now.
He handed me a card. I turned it over, looked at Dave’s angry stare, at the agent’s practiced smile.
— You know what, Oliver? I’ll think about it, but not today. I’ve got my own plans— I’m getting a cat. Maybe a new frying pan too.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dave muttered something and disappeared back into the living room. I leaned against the door, let out a quiet laugh— the first real laugh I’d had in years, right there in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a smile, thinking of naming the cat Martha, after the one we had as kids before Dad gave her to the neighbours because “she shed everywhere”. Now I’ll have my own Martha, and no one will say the fur is a problem.
And that’s where I am, love. Just a fresh start, a kettle, a cat on the way, and a whole lot of freedom.
