My husband spent years trying to find himself on the sofa, so I packed his bags and sent him back to his mums
How many times do you have to nag me, Lucy? I told you, Im in the middle of something. Ideas dont just appear instantly, youve got to be in the right mindset, Toms muffled voice came from under the sofa cushion. You and your chores just throw me off.
Lucy let out a long, tired sigh, plonking the Tesco bags onto the hallway floor. The plastic handles dug into her fingers, leaving red marks, but Tom didnt even look up. He was sprawled over their ancient sofa, glued to his phone, probably trying to crack another level on one of those silly games. The only sounds in the flat were the tired hum of the fridgebadly in need of defrostingand the odd triumphant noise leaking from Toms phone.
Three years. Thats how long his soul searching had dragged on. At first, he called it a bit of burnout. Tom quit his job in sales, claiming working for the man was suffocating his creativity. Lucy had backed him then, remembering the spark in his eyes when they first met. He just needed a break, she thoughta month, maybe two. But months blurred into years, and the break became their daily life.
Tom, I got potatoes and chicken for tea, Lucy said quietly, shrugging off her coat. Would you peel the veg while I get changed? My heads pounding after that meeting.
He tutted, finally dragging his gaze from the phone. His once-handsome, decisive face now wore a constant sulkas if the world had overlooked his genius. The stubble, which he couldnt be bothered to shave, made him look less rugged, more like a tired allotment-holder.
Lucy, seriously? Im busy right now. Im analysing the startup sceneany minute now, Ill hit on an idea thatll revolutionise the business world. Cant you just sort the food out? Youre the real homemaker; thats your thing. My jobs to bring home the bacon. But I cant do that without a strategy.
Lucy didnt reply. She went into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on automatically, and glanced out at the streetlights winking through the autumn mist. Below, people hurried home, the world ticking on as usual. Yet in her own flat, time stuck viscously in a jelly of empty promises. Tom hadn’t brought home so much as a penny in ages, yet he was always hungry for cutlets, asking for new shirts (for job interviews that never happened), and waxing lyrical about lofty ideas.
That evening, Toms mum calledright on time, as she did every day, as if she was checking her precious son was cared for.
Hello, Lucy, love, came her syrupy voice, sweet but with an edge sharp enough to set your teeth on edge. Hows Tommy? He said he had a migraine earlier. Did you check his blood pressure?
Hello, Mrs Jenkins. No, I havent checked it. Hes been glued to his mobile all dayprobably just his eyes that are tired, Lucy replied, stirring chicken in the frying pan.
Well, really! Mrs Jenkins huffed. Hes not just sitting on his phonehes working, doing research. You dont appreciate him, Lucy. All you care about is the nine to five and your payslip. Toms got a sensitive soulhes a thinker. He needs your support, not your nagging. Oh, his shoes need replacing too, its autumn and his ones are a disgrace. If you cared, youd sort him outwhatll people think?
Lucy tucked the phone under her chin, getting out plates.
Mrs Jenkins, Ive just paid the council tax, did the food shop, forked out for Toms dentist, plus Im still clearing the Argos bill for his design laptop he never touched. No spare cash for shoes right nowhes got three pairs in the wardrobe, let him pick.
A sharp silence hung in the air.
Honestly, Lucy, Mrs Jenkins finally said icily. You never valued him. Meanness in a woman is never attractive. Ill buy him shoes myself if his wife wont.
The dead tone on the line sounded like a verdict. Lucy sat heavily on the stool and put her head in her hands. She was thirty-two. She was a senior accountant at a big London firm; her boss valued her, her colleagues respected her. At home, though, she felt like a maid for a spoilt lord.
Things came to a head a few weeks later. Lucy had been quietly tucking money away for a holidaynot the Maldives, mind you, just a cheap health retreat in Bath to sort out her back and unwind. The envelope was tucked under her bed linen, her secret hope.
One Tuesday, she got home early, thanks to a surprise fire alarm at work. She tried her key as usual, but the door was bolted from the inside. She rang the bell. Silence. Rang it again. She heard a scramble, then Tom opened the door, flustered and wide-eyed.
Youre early. Why are you home? I wasermeditating. Yoga. Cant interrupt the energy flow, you know, he babbled.
Lucy slipped off her shoes and went straight to the bedroom. On the bed, a shiny new PlayStation and a pile of games were spread out in their wrappers.
Whats this? she asked, her knees going cold.
Tom scratched his head, feigning nonchalance.
Oh, thats… an investment. Esports and streaming are huge nowIm going to try my hand at it. Ill stream my games, commentate, people will send money. Theres millions in it, Lucy! This is our future!
Lucy walked to the drawer. Her hands shook as she rifled under the bedding: the envelope was missing.
Did you take my savings? Her voice came out dead and steady.
Tom winced like hed bitten a lemon. Not took, invested! Im telling you, in a month youll be in Switzerland, not grim old Bath. Trust me. Just believe in me for once.
Games are business now? Lucy echoed. Youve tried photographywe bought a camera for eight hundred quid, its just gathering dust. You wanted to be a web designerwe got you that fancy laptop, now you just watch Netflix on it. Remember immaculate pedigree cats? Thank goodness Im allergic. Now streaming? With my savings?
With our savings! Tom shot back. Were a team, its our joint money.
No, Tom. The money is mine. The needs are all yours.
At that moment, something inside Lucy snapped. The thick, silent rod holding up their marriage just broke. She looked at Tom, really looked, for the first time in years, without a filter of pity or habit. Here stood a grown, healthy man, leeching off her sense of duty. Not a misunderstood genius, just a garden-variety lazybones.
Pack your things, she said.
What? Tom blinked in confusion. To the shop?
Your things. Into a suitcase.
He laughed nervously. Come on, Luce, dont be dramatic. I just got carried awaydidnt ask, fair enough. But Im still doing this for us. Where would I even go at this hour?
To your mums, she said calmly, hauling the big suitcase from the wardrobe and tossing it on the bed next to the PlayStation. Mrs Jenkins will appreciate your sensitive spirit.
You cant do this! Its my flat as well! Tom protested, face reddening. Im on the tenancy. Im your husband. By law
By law, Tom, Lucy cut him off, neatly folding up his shirts, this flat was left to me by my gran two years before our wedding. Under English law, something inherited before marriage stays yours. Your tenancy is just temporary, and I wont extend it. And as of tomorrow, Im filing for divorce.
She spoke precisely, like a solicitors letter. Her icy calm frightened Tom more than if shed started smashing dishes. He realised, finally, she was dead serious.
Youre kicking me out? Over money? he tried the guilt trip. What happened to for better or worse? Im just going through a rough patch!
Lucy stopped, socks in hand.
I was there for better, when we married. I was there for worse, when you lost your job. I didnt sign up for cheek, Tom. For three years, Ive done it allwork, cooking, bills, every problem. You? You cant even take out the bins. Youve stolen my health, Tom. That holiday fund was for my back, for my sanity. And you blew it on a toy.
She shoved the console atop his clothes.
Theres your big idea. Enjoy.
Tom stood there, motionless, hoping shed cave. But Lucy kept packing methodically: jeans, shirts, tracksuit. Twenty minutes later, the suitcase was stuffed. She hauled it into the hallway.
Keys, she said, hand out.
Youll regret this, Tom hissed, flinging his keyring onto the table. Youll crawl back when I make it big, when Im rich and famous. But youre dead to me. Mark my words!
Ill hold you to that, said Lucy, opening the door.
Tom picked up his suitcase, grabbed the games box, and, with his head held high, marched out. The door clunked shut behind him. Lucy snapped the chain across, double-locked it.
Silence. Beautiful, absolute silence. No chuntering voice, no crumbs on the carpet, nobody whining for dinner. Lucy slid down the door, sitting on the floor, and realised she wasnt going to cry. No tears, no panic that shed feared. Instead, a strange freedomshed finally shrugged off a backpack full of bricks.
The next day, the storm arrived. First, it was Mrs Jenkins on the phone.
What on earth have you done, you heartless girl?! she screamed so loud Lucy had to hold the phone away. Youve thrown my Tom out, left him wandering the streets! He turned up here grey as a ghost, trembling. Hes traumatised! Youre breaking him!
Mrs Jenkins, Lucy replied dryly, as she filled in the divorce forms on the council website. Toms thirty-five, not a child. Hes not on the streets, hes with his mother. Youve always said I dont look after himits your chance to show me how its done.
How dare you! Hes used to comfort! My flats tiny. Hes got all his stuff and that wretched PlayStation with him, he played till three AM, kept me up. Call that work? For heavens sake, just take him back!
No.
What do you mean, no?
I mean, noIm not having him back. Were divorcing.
You selfish, spiteful girl! Mrs Jenkins spat before slamming the phone down.
That night, Tom messaged: Luce, stop sulking. Mums giving me hell, her sofas awful. Ill sell the PlayStation, pay you back some of the money. Can we talk?
Lucy deleted it without reading further. She knew the script: Ill sell it, Ill pay you back, Ill change. Shed heard it all before.
The divorce didnt drag onno kids, barely any assets to split. Lucy, feeling generous, left Tom the gadgets bought for his projectslet him get creative. The flat, as expected, stayed with her. At the hearing, Tom argued hed put his sweat and soul into the home, but he had no receipts for building supplies (Lucy had paid every penny), and all the soul in the world didnt count in court. The judge, a tired woman in glasses, looked at Lucy with deep sympathy.
Six months passed.
Lucys life utterly changed. She didnt meet any rich tycoon, or fly off to Bali. She simply began living for herself. After work, she went swimming instead of rushing home to cook. Weekends were for walks in Hyde Park, reading, old friendsfriends Tom had hated (those silly hens, he called them).
The place was spotless and tranquil. No one scattered socks or left biscuit crumbs in the sofa. No one hogged the bathroom. Oddly, with Tom gone, her money seemed to go much further; a single non-working man, it turned out, cost more than two women. Lucy treated herself to new clothes, a fresh haircut, even booked that little retreat in Bath.
One day, coming out of Sainsburys, she literally bumped into Mrs Jenkins. The older woman looked thin, nervous.
Oh Lucy, she stammered, eyeing Lucys healthy, happy glow.
Hello, Mrs Jenkins. How are you? And Tom?
Her face twitched at the mention of her son.
Tom still searching for himself, she muttered, staring at the pavement. Its hard for him. Creative block.
Still? Lucy smiled, polite but cool.
Suddenly, Mrs Jenkins burst out, as if unburdening herself: Honestly, its too much! He sits all day gaming, yelling at his screen. Wont let me get a nights sleep, claims its work. Eats for three, runs up the electric. I keep telling him to get even a shelf-stacking jobmy pension wont stretch to both of us! He says, Mum, you dont understand, Im an individual! I go through Rescue Remedy like water. Lucy she looked up at Lucy with hope, theres time to make up. People fall out and patch up. He talks about you. Says your roast was better than mine. Hes not a bad lad, just lost. Take him back? Youre strong enough, Im only old. I need some peace, love.
Lucy looked at this woman whod once called her stingy and selfish. She didnt feel any bitterness. Just total indifference.
Mrs Jenkins, she said softly but firmly, Toms your son. You raised him, gave him those beliefs. You said he was too clever for me. Now you get to enjoy his company every day. As for me, Ive had my fill.
She shifted her shopping bag higherlight as a feather, not like the bags of spuds shed dragged home half a year ago.
Take care, Mrs Jenkins. I wish Tom all the best finding himself.
Lucy headed for her car, heels clicking cheerfully on the tarmac. She knew what awaited back home: silence, a delicious dinner just for her, and her favourite book. And that was proper happiness. As for Tomlet him find himself, so long as its not on her sofa.
