“Who are you?!”
Emily froze in the doorway of her own flat, blinking in disbelief.
Standing before her was a strangera woman in her thirties with her hair tied back in a ponytailand behind her, two children, a boy and a girl, peering curiously at their unexpected visitor.
In the hallway, unfamiliar slippers lay strewn about, coats she didnt recognise hung on the rack, and the smell of beef stew wafted from the kitchen.
“And who are *you*?” The woman frowned, instinctively pulling the younger child closer. “We live here. Gregory let us in. He said the landlady wouldnt mind.”
“This is *my* flat!” Emilys voice shook with outrage. “And I *absolutely* did not give you permission to stay here!”
The woman blinked in confusion, glancing at the toys scattered across the floor, the laundry drying in the kitchenas if searching for proof of her right to be there.
“But Gregory said Were family. He told us you wouldnt mind. That you were kind and understanding.”
Emily felt a wave of anger and shock, like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her.
She slowly closed the door and leaned against it, trying to steady herself. Her home, her space, her lifeand suddenly, she was the outsider.
—
A year ago, everything had been different. Emily had been on holiday by the sea, enjoying a well-earned break after finishing a demanding projectthe restoration of a historic building in central Manchester.
At thirty-four, she was a successful architect, used to relying only on herself. Her career took up most of her life, and she didnt mindthe work was fulfilling and brought in a steady, comfortable income.
Shed met Gregory on the pier one sweltering August evening. He was charming, a few years older than her, with a warm smile and attentive brown eyes. Divorced for three years, with two kidsa ten-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girlhe worked as a site manager for a big construction firm.
Gregory courted her in an old-fashioned wayflowers every day, dinners at waterfront restaurants, long walks under the stars.
“Youre special,” hed say, kissing her hand gently. “Smart, independent, beautiful. I havent met a woman as together as you in years. You know what you want.”
Emily melted under his attention. After a string of failed relationships with men whod either been intimidated by her success or tried to compete with her, Gregory felt like a gift.
He respected her work, asked about her projects, supported her when clients made impossible demands.
“I love that youre strong,” hed say. “But youre still soft, still kind.”
The holiday ended, but the relationship didnt. Gregory visited her in Manchester, she went to see him in Liverpool. Video calls, messages, plans for the future.
Eight months later, he proposed on the same pier where theyd first met.
The wedding was small but warm. Emily moved to Liverpool, started at a local architecture firm, and left her Manchester flat empty.
“Were family now,” hed say, holding her tight. “My kids are yours, my problems are yours. Well get through everything together.”
At first, Emily was happy. She loved the feeling of a real home, the warmth of family, the sound of childrens voices. 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.
First, it was little thingsGregory would take money from her account without warning. “Forgot to ask, sorry,” hed say when she noticed the withdrawals.
Then came the requests to help with child support for his ex-wife.
“You understand, dont you?” hed say, giving her that guilty smile. “The kids shouldnt suffer just because their dads had a rough month at work.”
Emily understood. She loved Gregory and cared for his children. But soon, the requests became constanttrips to see their grandmother in York, new winter coats, summer camp fees, a maths tutor.
The worst part? Gregory started transferring money to his ex directly from Emilys account without even telling her.
“Theyre *our* kids now,” hed say when she confronted him. “You love them, dont you? Besides, you earn more than me. Its not like you cant afford it.”
“Its not about the money,” shed reply firmly. “Its *my* money, and you could 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 less like a wife and more like a convenient bank account. Her opinion didnt mattershe was just presented with the bill. And whenever she tried to push back, 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 everything to you.”
—
That spring, when Emily went to visit her sick mother in Lancashire and decided to stop by her Manchester flat to check on it, shed still hoped things could be fixed. Maybe some time apart would help them both rethink things.
But what she found in her flat shattered every last hope.
The place was a mess. Unwashed dishes piled in the kitchen, someone elses laundry drying in the bathroom, a childs cot in *her* bedroom.
On the table lay unpaid utility bills totalling over eight hundred pounds.
“How long have you been living here?” Emily asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.
“Three months,” the woman replied, still oblivious. “Gregory said it was fine while we found our own place. Weve been paying, of coursefour hundred a month. He said you were okay with it, that you had a big heart.”
Emily pulled out her phone with trembling hands and called Gregory.
“Gregory, did you *forget* to ask me something?!” she snapped. “You moved a *family* into my flat without even telling me. And wheres the rent? Twelve hundred pounds!”
“Em, dont shoutits my cousin, Sarah, and the kids. They had nowhere else to go. You werent even using the place. You dont mind helping people out, do you? And the moneys for our holiday to SpainI was going to surprise you.”
Something inside Emily snapped. Not from anger, but from cold, clear understanding.
Gregory didnt see her as his wife. She was just a resourceher flat, her money, her life, all his to use without asking.
“Gregory,” she said, voice steel. “They have one week to leave.”
“Em, are you *serious*? There are *kids*! Where are they supposed to go? Have you got no heart?”
“Not my problem. One week. And I want every penny of that rent.”
“How can you do this? Were *family*!”
“In a real family, people *ask* before making decisions.”
She hung up and turned back to the woman, who was now looking horrified.
“Im sorry,” Emily said, and she meant it. “But you have to go. Nobody asked me.”
The next few days were a whirlwind. Emily changed the locks. Hired a solicitor to handle the divorce and finances. Blocked Gregorys access to her accounts.
He called every daypleading, accusing, playing the guilt card.
“I thought we were a real family,” hed say, voice breaking. “I thought you loved me.”
“You thought my things were yours to take,” she corrected. “Turns out, they werent.”
“Youre heartless! Youre throwing *family* away over money!”
“You threw *us* away when you decided my voice didnt matter.”
The divorce was quickno shared assets, no children together. Gregory returned some of the money, but not all. Emily didnt drag it out in court. She just wanted it over.
“Youll regret this,” he said at their last meeting. “Youll end up alone, with no one who wants you. Whod want a woman as cold as you?”
“I want me,” Emily replied calmly. “And thats enough.”
On the train back to Manchester, watching the countryside blur past, she didnt think about lost love. She thought about how important it was not to lose *herself* in love.
And how real love shouldnt demand sacrificejust respect.
