My husband kicked me out of my own flat, but I wasnt about to take it lying down
The rain was doing its best impression of an enthusiastic percussionist on my brolly as I trudged up the steps to my flat. My feet were singing their own song after a marathon shift at work, but the prospect of a nice cup of tea and my famous apple pie cinnamon and vanilla, thank you very much was enough to warm my weary soul. Id left it in the oven, hoping Tom would fetch it out when he got home.
I fished out my keys, automatically reaching for the most battered one the front door. Seven years ago, when Tom and I shacked up together, I suggested he have his own copy. I still remember his lopsided grin the one Id fallen for as he said, Course, love. Were a team now.
Funny how the mind tosses those memories at you just when everythings going pear-shaped. And that evening, everything was off, right from the moment I crossed the threshold.
The aroma of apple pie was nowhere to be found. Instead, chilly air whistled in from an open window, accompanied by something else the unmistakable void of trouble brewing. On the kitchen table was a neat stack of documents, arranged with all the ceremony of a proper business meeting.
Tom? I called, peeling off my soggy raincoat.
In the kitchen, he replied, sounding like he was auditioning for the role of emotionless robot.
He was sat at the table, hands folded like he was presiding over a UN summit. I knew all his habits or so I naively thought.
Your stuffs by the front door, he announced without preamble. Flats mine now.
I actually laughed. I mean, it had to be a joke a dodgy one, but a joke nonetheless.
What on earth are you talking about? Its my flat. My parents old place.
Was your flat, he slid the papers across. Its mine now. Signed and sealed.
I picked up the first sheet. The lines blurred, but the stamp and signatures were perfectly real. As was the date three weeks ago.
Theres got to be a mistake, I said, voice wobbling. I didnt sign anything.
You did, he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. Remember the night I brought those car loan forms over? You didnt read them, just signed like always.
My brain offered up a handy little memory: late night, just back from work, knackered. Tom with his stack of paperwork, his soothing voice: Just a formality, love. Need to refresh a few documents.
How could you? The words stuck in my throat. We were supposed to be family!
He smirked. And in that smirk, I saw a stranger Id never noticed in seven years.
You stopped being interesting ages ago, he stood up. Youve got one hour to pack your essentials. The rest you can fetch when I say.
I stared at him, my mind whirling. Where was the man Id shared seven years of my life with? The one who said he loved my apple pies, my silly laughter, my daydreams of big family Christmases?
This isnt legal, I tried, clutching at straws. You cant just
I can, he cut in. And I have. Dont complicate things, Emily. Just go.
I packed, robotic, tossing clothes into the suitcase that seemed to appear out of thin air. My hands shook and in my head one thought ricocheted: How could I have been so blind? Seven years… and I never saw this coming.
The rain was pelting down as I stepped out of my own flat. A suitcase in one hand, a bag stuffed with hurriedly grabbed documents and essentials in the other. My phone showed one name I could call Beth, my oldest mate.
Beth… my voice broke. Can I come over?
Under the shelter of the entrance, I let the raindrops drum into puddles around my feet. Inside, I was hollow, gutted, as if someone had taken a chunk of me and chucked it down the nearest storm drain. But somewhere in all that emptiness, a stubborn little flame of rage began flickering.
Was this the end? Or the beginning? No idea yet.
The corridors of the court stretched on forever. My heels echoed on the marble, setting up a beat in my very skull. Beth gripped my hand, while Mr Charles Walker my solicitor, all tweed and quiet confidence strode ahead with the document folder.
Tom was already perched in the hearing room, looking chummy with his lawyer some slick, hair-gelled chap with a smile that looked like it had a licence to sell dodgy second-hand cars. Tom caught my eye and, for an instant, I felt small. Only for an instant.
All rise, court in session! rang out.
The judge, a keen-eyed woman of about fifty, got things underway. Toms barrister was up first, buttering the toast, painting me as the unpredictable wife who signed away the flat with a flourish and now wanted to play the victim.
My clients wife willingly signed those papers, Your Honour, Mr Hair Gel intoned with faux sympathy. Now the marriage is wobbling, she claims foul play.
Toms mouth twitched into that old smug half-grin. The Ive got this grin.
My turn. Legs shaky, voice steady.
Your Honour, this flat was handed down from my parents; I grew up there. Every dent, every squeak in the floorboards is home. Tom knew that. He exploited my trust, slipping in property transfer papers among car finance rubbish.
I produced old photos.
Heres me aged five, at that very window. My sixteenth birthday with Mum, there in the kitchen. And ten years worth of bills all paid with my own money.
Mr Walker presented evidence: neighbours statements, land registry records, expert testimony confirming I signed those papers without a clue what they meant.
And finally, Your Honour, my solicitor handed over a folder, a handwriting expert confirmed some of these signatures are forgeries.
Tom twitched. For the first time in the entire hearing, his cockiness stumbled.
Debate raged for hours. When the judge retired to deliberate, Tom sidled up to me.
You could still drop all this, he whispered. We could begin again.
I looked into those familiar eyes and felt nothing, except maybe mild amusement.
We have begun again, I replied. Just… not together.”
The courts verdict was short and to the point: the transfer was null and void. Flat back to its rightful owner. And with a side dish: the judge found signs of fraud and sent the papers to the police.
I left the court building a new woman. The sun was shining like the universe was celebrating my little victory. Beth swung me around in a hug, Mr Walker offered a firm handshake.
You know, Em, Beth said as we strolled to the car, Youve changed. For the better.
Back at what was most definitely my home, I flung open every window for a blast of fresh spring air. I boxed up Toms things and parked them by the door. Tomorrow, he could fetch them under the watchful eye of a bailiff.
That evening, I had a proper knees-up Beth, Mr Walker and a few new pals from the battlefield of life. The kitchen was filled with the smell of apple pie and laughter bouncing off the walls. For the first time in ages, I felt gloriously alive.
Later, when everyone had gone home tipsy and full, I stood at the window, surveying the city lights. Reflected in the glass, I saw a woman who was tough, certain, and ready for her next chapter.
Im never letting anyone take my world away from me again, I said to the night air.
Author: Jessie James.
Just a reminder, its a work of fiction!
