I threw his things off the eighth-floor balcony. It was a sight no one would forget. Even the neighbours were thrilled.
The realisation hit me like a lightning bolt—no one truly cares about us in this world. No one except mothers and their children. Though even that isn’t always true—life has a way of turning everything upside down. I was never one of those people who basked in happiness. Forever alone, I chased after fleeting dreams—a flat, a car, stability. I worked myself to the bone, took on extra jobs, saved every penny. In the end, I got what I wanted: a flat in the quiet town of Canterbury and then a car. But happiness? It stayed just out of reach.
Everything changed when Peter came into my life. Charming and young, he began courting me. I agreed to marry him, though there was no love in my heart. It was just… convenient. I was four years older, but no one noticed. We lived in my flat—he’d come from a village and had no place of his own in the city. For a long time, we had no children. I’d accepted it, but then our daughter, Lily, was born. And that’s when everything fell apart.
The first argument flared up like a struck match. Peter started blaming me—his words sharp, saying he was exhausted. Lily cried, I was always in a foul mood, and he worked himself ragged, coming home drained. His words stung, but I endured them. Then came the threats: “I’ll leave if this keeps up.” I stayed silent, gritting my teeth, but inside, I was seething. One day, he packed his things and announced he was leaving. I looked him in the eye and said coolly, “Go. And don’t you dare come back with apologies.” He froze, as if he hadn’t expected that. And then he stayed.
For a month, he behaved, but it was just the calm before the storm. Soon the threats started again, and I felt my patience wearing thin, like a thread about to snap. That evening, when he brought up leaving once more, I’d had enough. While he was in the shower, I silently gathered all his things—clothes, shoes, even his ridiculous headphones—and stuffed them into bags by the door. When he stepped out, his face went slack with shock. “What are you doing?” he shouted, but I wasn’t listening. “Think about your choices,” he spat before slamming the door.
I didn’t stop there. I grabbed the bags and dragged them to the balcony. We were on the eighth floor, and without hesitation, I started hurling his things down. Jackets, jeans, trainers—all of it rained onto the pavement below, and as I did, the anger gave way to a strange relief. The neighbours spilled onto the street—some filming, some clapping, some just gawking. It was like something out of a film, the heroine finally breaking free. I didn’t care what they thought. I’d never loved Peter—I’d just tolerated him for as long as I could. He lived in my flat, spent my money, enjoyed my comforts—now he could find his happiness elsewhere.
In that moment, I knew I’d done the right thing. I had a home, a daughter to live for. Lily was my purpose, my joy, my light. Peter? He was just a shadow in my life, a temporary guest who’d overstayed his welcome. I felt no guilt—only freedom. The neighbours talked about my “performance” for ages, but I couldn’t care less about their gossip. Canterbury was a small town, where news spread like wildfire. But I knew I’d listened to my heart.
The next day, Peter came back for what was left of his things. He looked pitiful—lost, with dull eyes. He tried to explain, but I cut him off. “You made your choice when you threatened me. Now live with it.” He gathered his things in silence and left. I shut the door and breathed deeply for the first time in years.
Life didn’t get easier after that, but it got truer. I kept working, raising Lily, building our future. Sometimes I caught myself thinking that loneliness wasn’t a curse, but a gift. It taught me to value myself, my strength, my home. Lily’s growing up, and I want her to see me not just as her mother, but as a woman who’ll stand her ground. Let that balcony moment be her lesson—no one has the right to keep you hostage, not even someone who shares your roof.
The neighbours still talk about that night, and I’ve heard some call me “that woman from the eighth floor.” Let them. I know that act was my liberation. I have my flat, my car, my daughter, and most importantly—my self-respect. As for Peter? Let him find his own place in this world. Without me.
The lesson was simple: sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let go of what—or who—weighs you down.
