—Have you lost your mind?— Emma shouted, shaking the papers in her hand. —How could you sell the house without my consent?

—Shut your mouth!— barked James, not looking up from his phone. —I’m the head of this family, and I decide what happens to our property.

—*Our* property?— Emma’s voice trembled with fury. —My father built this house with his own hands! And you’ve sold it for pennies to some stranger!

James finally lifted his gaze from the screen and gave her a cold stare.

—Your father died ten years ago. The house is in my name. I can do as I please.

Emma felt her knees buckle. She sank onto a chair, still clutching the sale documents. Her pulse roared in her ears.

—James,— she whispered, —we’ve lived here for thirty years. Our children grew up here. Our grandchildren took their first steps in this house.

—Enough sentimentality,— he snapped. —The place is falling apart. The money’s better spent elsewhere.

—On what?— Emma shot to her feet. —Your trips to the bookies? Gifts for that… that girl young enough to be our daughter?

James whirled on her.

—One more word and I’ll shut you up myself!

Emma stepped back toward the window. In thirty-two years of marriage, he’d never raised a hand to her—but the venom in his eyes now sent a chill down her spine.

—Pack your things,— James muttered, returning to his phone. —The new owners move in next week.

—And where do *we* go?— Her voice wavered.

—That’s *your* problem. I’ve rented a flat in town. One bedroom. For myself.

—For *yourself*?— Emma stared in disbelief. —What about me?

—What *about* you? Never worked a day in your life. Go mooch off the kids.

Her chest tightened. Her blood pressure pills were upstairs—but facing her husband now was unthinkable.

—James,— she tried again, —we’re *family*. How can you do this?

—What family?— He smirked. —I was done with you five years ago. Old, fat, nagging. Who’d want you?

The words cut deeper than any slap. Emma fled to the bathroom, locking the door. She turned on the tap to drown out her sobs.

The mirror showed a fifty-two-year-old woman with streaks of gray and swollen eyes. Yes, she’d aged. Yes, the baby weight never left. But was that reason enough to toss her out?

She remembered her youth—the years James spent courting her with poems and roses. Vowing eternal love.

Now that same man called her worthless.

Her phone rang. Daughter Emily’s name flashed on the screen.

—Mum! How are you?— Emily chirped. —We’re bringing the kids this weekend!

—Em,— Emma’s voice broke, —there’s… trouble here.

—You’re crying. What happened?

—Your father sold the house. Without telling me.

Silence.

—*Sold* it?— Emily finally gasped. —Mum, explain.

Emma spilled everything. Emily listened, occasionally gasping.

—But where will you *go*?

—Your father’s rented a place. For *himself*. Says I should sort myself out.

—That’s *disgusting*!— Emily exploded. —Pack a bag. You’ll stay with us.

—Love, your flat’s already crowded—

—We’ll manage. You’re *not* ending up homeless.

Emma wept with gratitude. At least her daughter hadn’t abandoned her.

That evening, son Daniel arrived. Tall, broad-shouldered—the spitting image of James in his prime. He found his father at the kitchen table, nursing a beer.

—Dad. What’s this about?— Daniel sat across from him.

—What’s *what* about?— James didn’t look up.

—Emily told me about the house. Have you gone mad?

—Not your business.

—The *hell* it isn’t! That’s my childhood home!

—You left. Got your own life. Left us behind.

—That’s how it *works*, Dad. Kids grow up. But parents stay parents.

James finally met his son’s gaze.

—I’m sick of your mother. Finished. Want to live *my* life.

—And where does Mum live?

—Dunno. Your problem.

—Christ, Dad—she *devoted* her life to you! Worked while you built this place, raised us,* ran this house*! And now you’re tossing her like rubbish?

—Enough!— James slammed his bottle down. —*I* make the decisions here!

Daniel stood.

—You know what? I *respected* you. Thought you were a real man. Turns out you’re just a selfish bastard.

—*Get out*!— James roared. —And don’t come back!

—Won’t need to,— Daniel said coolly. —Not until you grow a conscience.

The door slammed. James sat alone, picking at cold leftovers.

Emma had heard every word in the hall. Her heart shattered—not just for herself, but for her children losing their father.

In the bedroom, she dug out an old suitcase. She packed mechanically—dresses, blouses, underthings—trying not to think.

At the wardrobe’s bottom lay a box of photos. She lifted their wedding picture: young, beaming, James in a sharp suit, her in lace.

They’d been so *in love*. Dreaming of children, a home, growing old together.

Now that same man couldn’t wait to be rid of her.

She took more photos—James cradling newborn Emily, summers at her parents’ cottage, the kids toddling in their garden.

So much happiness. Did it mean *nothing*?

—Still here?— James loomed in the doorway. —Told you to pack.

—I *am*.— She didn’t look up.

—Taking those old pictures?

—They’re our family’s history.

—History’s dead.— He yanked drawers open, stuffing clothes into a duffel.

—James,— she ventured, —can’t we *talk*? Work this out?

—Nothing *to* work out.

—But *why*? What did I *do*?

He paused.

—You did *nothing*. That’s the problem. Thirty years of the same routine. Breakfast, chores, telly, bed. Like a bloody *clock*.

—That’s *marriage*,— Emma said weakly.

—*Your* idea of marriage. I want more. Travel. Fun. *Living* before I’m dead.

—With that girl I saw in your car?

His jaw twitched.

—Who told you?

—Linda from number twelve saw you at the pub.

—So what? I’ve a right to *live*!

—And our vows?

—What vows? We’ve been strangers for years.

She knew he was right—they’d drifted apart—but she’d thought that was normal. That passion faded into quiet companionship.

She’d been wrong.

—James,— she tried, —what if we *fix* this? Take a trip, just us—

—Too late.— He zipped the duffel. —I’ve made my choice.

—The *children*? The grandkids?

—They’ll manage. Grandkids can visit.

—In a *one-bed flat*?

—If they *want* to.

Hope died. James wouldn’t budge.

Next morning, Emily and her husband Mark arrived. Mark silently loaded Emma’s bags while Emily confronted her father.

—Dad, *think*!— she pleaded. —Mum gave you her *life*!

—Her choice.— James shrugged.

—*Choice*? She *loved* you! Raised *your* kids, kept *your* home!

—Nobody forced her.

—You made *vows*! ‘For better or worse’!

—Words. Life moves on.

Emily looked at him with such disgust he turned away.

—You’re dead to me, Dad. Consider yourself childless.

—Suit yourself.

—And don’t *dream* of seeing your grandkids. I’ll tell them *exactly* what kind of man you are.

James said nothing. Emily stormed out.

Emma stood in the doorway, memorizing each room—the kitchen where she’d cooked countless meals, the lounge where they’d celebrated holidays, the bedroom where she’d brought two babies into the world.

Now it all belonged to strangers.

—Mum, come *on*.— Emily beckoned from the car.

—Saying goodbye.— Emma’s whisper barely carried.

She took one photo—the whole family, smiling—tucked it into her bag, and stepped outside.

James sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. He didn’t look up asAs the car pulled away, Emma realized the hardest loss wasn’t the house, the years, or even James—it was the woman she’d once been, the one who believed love could last forever