27April2026
Ive been standing in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand, the house key still dangling from the lock I barely managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags are potatoes, onions, chicken leg quarters, a bag of discounted buckwheat and three plain, unsweetened yoghurts for Charlie he only eats the white ones. Im already rehearsing whether Ill manage to thaw the meat or end up throwing frozen chunks onto the pan and getting a steamed mess instead of a proper roast.
Victor is leaning against the doorway, phone tucked to his ear, stirring something in his mug instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washes up after himself.
She wont notice a thing, he says, slurping from the mug. Just tell her youve got the paperwork for the transfer, shell sign. She trusts me. Shes as wooden as a plank no feelings, no personality. The housekeeper will be free of charge.
He laughs, the same laugh I heard in the garage with his mates while I was washing dishes after their gettogether, the laugh he made when little Charlie tumbled off his bike and I ran with a bottle of antiseptic while Victor stared and shouted, Come on, egghead, get up yourself.
My ears throb like before a storm. My fingers clutch the bag handles, the cling film digging into my palms until my skin turns white. I set the groceries down slowly, pull out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen I can hear Victor already arguing with Simon about fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake. He always does that first he spits out the poison, then he slides into idle chatter as if nothing has happened, as if Im truly a wooden puppet.
I press the phone to the crack of the slightly ajar door and stay there until he finishes his call with Simon and promises to finalise the deal next week.
When he hangs up he stomps over to the fridge, slams the door, and I stop the recording, tuck the phone into my pocket, grab the bags and slip past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I lean my back against the jamb.
A cold fire presses against my throat I feel like screaming or howling like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Charlie, school, university, his debts that Ive been paying off with my own holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed away. His socks, his meatballs, his endless Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now they call me wooden. And theres already a buyer lined up.
I sit on the bed, stare at my hands, dusted with buckwheat flour. I look at my wedding band thin, worn thin. He gave it to me when we were still sharing a cramped flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I want to fling it out the window, but I dont. I take a deep breath, just as Mum taught me: If youre hurt, count to ten first, then decide what to do.
I count to twenty, stand, splash my face with icy water and pull an old notebook from the drawer. Inside I find the number for the local councils citizen services centre the one I used when I applied for my mothers disability benefits.
A female voice on the line explains that a restriction on any registration of the property can be placed via the online portal, but its better to come in person. I tell her Ill be there right now.
Its about three oclock. Victor is making a racket in the kitchen probably frying an omelette. I slip into the hallway, pull on my coat.
You going somewhere? he asks without turning, the pan hissing.
Just to buy some bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
Right, and grab me a pack of cigarettes while youre at it.
The lift rides up, the doors closing with a thud. Its not fear that makes my heart pound, but the realisation that for twentyfour years Ive never done anything without his blessing. We even chose the wall colour together, only for him to later declare, Beige is boring, it should have been sage. I kept quiet.
The council office is empty. A clerk at the window peers at my documents.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one even with a power of attorney can sell, gift or exchange the flat.
Absolutely.
She hits the keys. Fifteen minutes later Im back on the street, a small piece of paper in my coat pocket next to the phone with the recording.
I return home with a loaf and a pack of Victors favourite cigarettes. Hes sprawled on the sofa, watching a war film. I head to the kitchen, turn on the kettle, scrape the burnt bits of yesterdays eggs from the pan and wash them away out of habit.
Around seven, the doorbell rings. Victor bolts up, pulls his tshirt over his head.
Thats me. Bring the kettle, love, someones coming over.
I nod.
A man in his fifties, wearing an expensive coat and carrying a leather briefcase, steps into the hallway. Victor brightens, flashes a grin.
Meet MrOliver Bennett, estate agent. About the flat.
I emerge from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and glance at Victors smug expression.
Victor, remember you were on the phone with Simon this afternoon?
He freezes. The smile slides off his face like badly stuck wallpaper.
What? Yeah it was just?
You called me a wooden wife. Said youd already found a buyer for my flat and that Id never find out.
A heavy silence falls. Oliver shifts his weight from one foot to the other; Victors face goes pale, his cheeks mottled.
What are you talking about, love? he begins, but I raise a hand.
No need. I heard everything. Listen.
I play the recording. His voice fills the room: My wife is wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me the housekeeper is free
Oliver steps back toward the door.
Victor, werent you aware there were complications?
Victor looks at me as if Im a stranger.
Did you record me? Were you spying? he hisses.
I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Charlie and his girlfriend could have dinner. And while I was there you were trading my house my house, Victor. Not ours. Not Mums.
He steps toward me, but I keep my composure.
And today I went to the council and placed a restriction on any action involving the flat without me being present. So your buyer I nod at Oliver can look elsewhere. This property is no longer for sale.
Oliver retreats.
Ill be on my way then. Victor, well talk later. Sorry.
He slips out the door.
Were alone. Victor stands in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish out of water.
What have you done? Youve ruined everything! We had plans!
You had plans. I had faith. And you smashed it by calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, Victor, and Ive burned.
He collapses onto the sofa, cradling his head.
Love, Im sorry. It just slipped. I didnt mean it. Simon pushed me
Simon, I snort. Always someone else to blame. Not you, the man who lived off my money for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets and treated me like a piece of furniture.
I take off my wedding ring, place it on the coffee table.
Tomorrow Ill file for divorce. The flat stays with me its Mums inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your things in a week. Ill explain everything to Charlie; hes an adult now.
L
No. You have no idea how light I feel right now. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook for you. Im thinking that I have a home, and I have myself.
I retreat to the bedroom, shut the door, and my phone buzzes a message from a friend: How was your day?
My reply is quick: Great. I stopped being wooden.
In the morning I wake at seven. Instead of hurrying to put the kettle on for Victor, I stretch, slip on a robe and brew coffee for myself ground beans with a dash of cinnamon. Victor only ever drinks instant.
He shuffles out of the room, eyes the Turkish cezve in my hand.
And me?
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Victor. Even wooden ones can sprout a soul.
I take a sip; the coffee is scorching hot. My hands still shake, the cup clatters against my teeth, but its the best coffee Ive ever tasted because its mine alone.
A knock at the door. I set the cup down and open it. Oliver Bennett stands there again, coat still immaculate, but his expression is nervous.
Sorry for coming early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but he didnt tell me I just wanted to offer my services as an agent, should you ever decide to buy, sell or rent anything. Honestly.
I stare, stunned. Victor peeks from the kitchen, his face twisted.
What are you doing here? he snaps.
Im working, Oliver says calmly. Ive got a new client now.
He slides a business card across the threshold. I turn it over, look at Victors frantic stare, at Olivers practiced smile.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. Tonight Im buying a cat. Maybe a new frying pan, too.
Oliver nods, says goodbye and leaves. Victor mutters something and disappears into the other room. I shut the door, lean my back against it and let out a quiet laugh the first genuine laugh Ive managed in years, echoing softly in my hallway.
I finish my coffee with a smile, already naming the cat Marta, after the little stray that lived with us as a child before Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Marta will be mine, and no one will ever say the fur is a problem again.
