“Who are you?”
Emily froze in the doorway of her own flat, unable to believe her eyes.
Before her stood an unfamiliar woman in her early thirties, her hair pulled into a neat ponytail, while two childrena boy and a girlpeeked curiously from behind her.
The hallway was cluttered with unfamiliar slippers, strange coats hung on the rack, and the smell of stew wafted from the kitchen.
“And who might you be?” the woman frowned, instinctively pulling the younger child closer. “We live here. Gregory let us in. He said you wouldnt mind.”
“This is *my* flat!” Emilys voice shook with indignation. “And I never gave you permission to stay here!”
The woman blinked in confusion, glancing at the toys scattered across the floor, the laundry drying in the kitchen, as if searching for proof of her right to be there.
“But Gregory said Were his relatives He told us you wouldnt mind, that you were kind and understanding”
Emily felt a surge of anger, as if someone had doused her in cold water. She slowly closed the door and leaned against it, trying to gather her thoughts. Her home, her space, her lifeand now she was the stranger in it.
A year ago, everything had been different. Emily had been on holiday by the seaside, enjoying a well-earned break after completing a demanding restoration project on a historic building in central London.
At thirty-four, she was a successful architect, used to relying only on herself. Work had consumed most of her life, and she didnt mindit brought her satisfaction and a steady, comfortable income.
She met Gregory on the pier one sweltering August evening. He was charming, a few years older, with a warm smile and attentive brown eyes. Divorced for three years, he had two childrena boy of ten and a girl of sevenand worked as a site foreman for a large construction firm.
Gregory courted her in an old-fashioned wayflowers every day, dinners at seaside restaurants, long walks under the stars.
“Youre special,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hand. “Clever, independent, beautiful. I havent met a woman like you in a long time. You know exactly what you want.”
Emily melted under his words and attention. After a string of failed relationships with men who were either intimidated by her success or tried to compete with her, Gregory seemed like a gift from fate.
He respected her work, asked about her projects with genuine interest, and supported her when clients demanded the impossible.
“I love that youre strong,” he said. “But youre still soft, still kind.”
The holiday ended, but their relationship didnt. Gregory visited her in London; she went to see him in Manchester. Video calls, messages, plans for the future.
Eight months later, he proposed right where theyd first met.
The wedding was small but warm. Emily moved to Manchester, found work at a local firm, and left her London flat empty.
“Were family now,” he said, holding her close. “My children are yours, my worries are yours. Well face everything together.”
At first, Emily was happy. She loved the feeling of a real home, the warmth of family life, the sound of childrens laughter. She helped Gregory with the kids, bought them gifts, paid for their clubs and lessons, took them to doctors appointments.
But slowly, things began to change.
At first, it was small thingsGregory took money from her account without asking. “Forgot to mention it, sorry,” hed say when she noticed the withdrawals.
Then came the requests to help with his ex-wifes alimony.
“You understand, dont you?” hed say, spreading his hands with a guilty smile. “The children shouldnt suffer just because things are tight at work this month.”
Emily understoodshe wanted to help. She loved Gregory and had grown attached to his children.
But the requests became constant, and the sums grew larger.
School trips to visit their grandparents in Edinburgh, new winter coats, summer camp fees, a maths tutor.
The worst was when Gregory started transferring money directly from her account to his ex-wifewithout even telling her.
“Theyre *our* children now,” hed argue when Emily confronted him. “You love them, dont you? Besides, you earn more than I do. You can spare it.”
“Its not about sparing it,” she said quietly but firmly. “Its *my* money, and you should at least discuss it with me first.”
“Of course, of course. Next time, Ill ask.”
But next time was no different.
Emily began to feel like a convenient source of income, not a wife or partner. Her opinions were ignored; she was simply presented with facts.
And every time she tried to object, Gregory accused her of being cold, selfish, unwilling to be a “real family.”
“I thought you were different,” hed say bitterly. “I thought money wasnt what mattered to you.”
That spring, when she visited her ailing mother in Surrey and decided to stop by her London flat to check on it, Emily still hoped things could be fixed. Maybe some time apart would help them both reconsider.
But what she found there shattered all her worst fears.
The flat was in disarraydirty dishes piled in the sink, unfamiliar laundry drying in the bathroom, and a childs cot in her bedroom.
On the table lay unpaid utility bills totalling over a thousand pounds.
“How long have you lived here?” Emily asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Three months,” the woman replied, still oblivious. “Gregory said we could stay until we found our own place. Weve been paying, of coursefive hundred a month. He said you wouldnt mind, said you had a big heart.”
With shaking hands, Emily called Gregory.
“Did you forget to *ask* me something?” she snapped. “You moved strangers into *my* flat without telling me! And wheres the rent? Fifteen hundred pounds for three months!”
“Em, dont shout” His voice was placating. “Theyre distant relatives, Sarah and the kids. They had nowhere else to go. You werent using the flat anyway. And the moneys for our holiday in SpainI was going to surprise you.”
Something inside Emily brokenot in anger, but in cold, clear understanding.
She realised that to Gregory, she wasnt a wifeshe was a resource. Her flat, her money, her lifeall were his to use, and her opinion didnt matter.
“Gregory,” she said, her voice steel. “They have one week to leave.”
“Emily, are you mad?” His voice turned sharp. “There are *children* here! Where will they go? Have you no heart?”
“Not my problem. One week. And I want every penny of that rent.”
“How can you? Youre my *wife*were *family*!”
“No, were not. In a real family, people *ask* each otherthey dont just take.”
She hung up.
The next days were a flurry of action. Emily changed the locks. Hired a solicitor. Blocked Gregory from her accounts.
He called dailypleading, accusing, guilt-tripping.
“I thought we were a real family,” he said, voice breaking. “I thought you loved me.”
“You thought you could take what you wanted,” she corrected. “Turns out you were wrong.”
“Youre heartless! Destroying a family over money!”
“You destroyed it when you decided my voice didnt matter.”
The divorce was swiftthere was little shared property, no children of their own. Gregory returned some of the money, but not all.
Emily didnt drag it out. She just wanted to close that painful chapter.
“Youll regret this,” he spat at their last meeting. “Youll end up alonewhod want a woman like you?”
“I want *me*,” she said calmly. “And thats enough.”
On the train back to London, watching the countryside blur past, she didnt think of lost love.
She thought of how important it was not to lose *herself* in love.
And how real love never demanded sacrificeonly respect.
