After Lily’s promotion at the bank, her entire demeanour shifted. The quiet, gentle woman he’d married became sharp, demanding, restless. Anthony couldn’t make sense of it. *What’s got into her? Things were fine before.* She snapped at him for doing nothing—why was *she* the one handling the cooking, the child, the cleaning? But Anthony didn’t see the problem. “What’s there to fix in a tiny flat in Manchester? The shelves are up, the taps don’t leak. And cooking? That’s not a man’s job.” Once, he dared ask for stew. Her retort was ice-cold: *“Peel the veg yourself, then I’ll cook.”* He exploded. “That’s *your* job! You’re the *wife*!”
Lily stayed late at work more often now, their son the last to be picked up from nursery. It pained Anthony—but go himself? What if they expected *more*? Moving furniture, fixing pipes? He grumbled, “Why’d you even take that promotion? Life was better before.” She didn’t raise her voice. “Then get *your* promotion in Business Development. Earn more—I’ll stay home, cook, mind our boy. But we can’t live on two wages now. My mum used to help—she’s got her own costs.” Anthony scowled. “Bloody home renovations.”
He had no interest in climbing the corporate ladder. His manager worked weekends, holidays—*no thanks.* “I do my hours and leave.” But Lily’s jabs festered. *Fine. If she wants to play boss, let her taste loneliness.* He lingered late at the office. Then came the affair—with Sarah from Accounts. Not a beauty, but soft-spoken, warm, always baking. A single mum, but that didn’t bother him. With her, he felt *needed*—cosy blankets, hot meals, admiring glances.
Meanwhile, Lily’s mother fetched their son—Lily was consumed by a major project. Anthony smirked. *Good. She won’t cook? I’m not starving. Sarah feeds me, praises me. Fair’s fair.* But Sarah had conditions. No sweets, perfume, or “treat money” at the door? Dinner got simpler. Affection, cooler. It unsettled him, but he shrugged. *She’s not demanding love—just attention, a few quid. And when Lily finds out I’m leaving? That’ll change her tune.* Then Sarah, without blinking, asked for a *coat*. A *proper* one.
Time to end the charade.
He stormed home, waited for Lily, and leveled his coldest stare.
“Enough. I’m a *man*. I want dinner. A tidy house. Fresh socks. You’re home first—why’s there no soup? Can’t manage a wash?”
Lily unbuttoned her coat, dropped her bag, exhaled.
“Is that all?”
“No.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m leaving. For a woman who *values* me. My bags are packed. Enjoy the silence.”
“Good.” She didn’t blink. “Go. I’m done with a lazy whinger. But the flat stays *mine*. *I* pay the mortgage. Solicitors will prove you never put a penny in.”
Boiling water couldn’t have shocked him more. No begging? No tears? He’d expected her to cling, to bargain. Instead—cold, hard maths.
Fuming, he grabbed his bags and marched to Sarah’s. Knocked, chest puffed. “Love, I’m yours. For good.”
She opened the door, scanned him head to toe, folded her arms.
“Who said you could move in? I’ve a kid. A rented flat. A pittance for wages. You’re not a solution—you’re a *cost*. No money? Piss off.”
The door slammed.
And there he stood. On the landing. A suitcase, shattered pride, empty hands.
Unwanted—by wife *or* mistress.
Alone. *Truly* alone—for the first time in years.
