“We’re selling your flat and moving in with my parents,” he repeated, stepping onto the balcony. “Mum and Dad have already sorted everything. A room upstairs, our own en suite. It’ll be proper cosy.”
Emma slowly set down her book. The spring air was crisp but welcome after a stuffy winter. She studied her husband standing in the doorway. Oliver looked determinedfar too determined for a Saturday morning.
“Come again?” she asked, hoping she’d misheard.
“We’re selling your flat and moving in with my parents,” he repeated. “Mum and Dad have everything ready. A bedroom upstairs, private bathroom. It makes sense.”
Emma stared, trying to work out if he was joking. Three years of marriage had taught her to read his moods, but now she was lost.
“Ollie, this was my nan’s flat. She left it to me.”
“So? The place needs work, bills are steep. My parents have a massive houseplenty of space. Well put the sale money into savings.”
“Whose savings?” Emma pressed.
“Ours, obviously. Mum says its the smart move. Shes always been sharp with money.”
Emma stood from the wicker chair and walked to the railing. Below, kids played in the garden. She remembered chasing about there herself as a girl when visiting her nan during school breaks.
“Your mum decided what I should do with my flat?”
“Dont start, Em. Were having a civil chat.”
“Chat? Youve handed me a done deal.”
Oliver reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Listen, its logical. Why keep two homes? My parents arent getting youngerthey need help. And this place whats so special? Just another two-bedder in the suburbs.”
“My childhood was here,” Emma said quietly. “Nan left it to me because she knew Id treasure it.”
“Sentiments sweet, but daft. Mums rightweve got to think ahead.”
“Whose future? Your mums?”
Oliver scowled. He hated anyone criticising his parents, especially his mother. Margaret had raised him alone till she met Robert when he was ten. Since then, Oliver saw it as his duty to shield her.
“Em, enough. Its decided. Were meeting the estate agent Monday.”
“Decided by who?”
“Me. Im head of this family.”
Emma laughedbitter, not amused.
“Head of the family? Seriously? Oliver, were equals. At least, I thought we were.”
“Equals dont cling to old junk. Mum sold her flat when she married Dad. Theyre fine.”
“Your mum sold a studio in Croydon and moved into your dads detached. Bit different.”
Oliver flushed. He hated having his blind spots pointed out.
“Dont talk about my parents like that!”
“Its the truth. And heres anotherI am NOT selling this flat.”
“Well see,” Oliver hissed before storming off.
Emma stayed put as the sun warmed her face. She thought of Nan, whod worked her whole life as a nurse to afford this flat. “Emma love,” shed say, “a woman must always have her own place. Remember that.”
That evening, Oliver brought his parents over “for tea.” Emma knew better. Margaret swept in first, eyeing the flat with disapproval.
“Goodness, no ones touched this place in twenty years,” she declared. “Peeling wallpaper, creaky floors. Imagine the cost to make it decent!”
Robert quietly took an armchair. He rarely spoke up when his wife was on a roll.
“Hello, Margaret, Robert,” Emma greeted. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Earl Grey, if youve got it,” her mother-in-law replied. “No sugar. We mind our figures.”
Emma went to the kitchen. Oliver followed.
“Dont sulk,” he said. “Mum and Dad want to help.”
“Help what? Rob me of my home?”
“Dont be dramatic. You wont be homeless.”
“No, just living by your parents rules, on their schedule.”
“Whats wrong with rules? Mum likes order.”
Emma brewed the tea, hands trembling slightly.
In the lounge, Margaret was already spreading papers on the table.
“Emma, sit,” she said, leaving no room for refusal. “We need to discuss details.”
“What details?”
“The sale, of course. Ive made calls. A place like this could fetch a tidy sum. Well have to knock some off for the state of it, but itll do.”
“Margaret, I am NOT selling.”
Her mother-in-laws brows shot up.
“Pardon? Oliver said you agreed.”
“Oliver LIED.”
“Em!” her husband cut in. “We talked about this”
“You talked. I listened. And I said NO.”
Margaret straightened, face hardening.
“Girl, you dont grasp the situation. Oliver is my only son. I wont have some”
“Some WHAT?” Emma interrupted. “Go on, finish that.”
“Some girl from God-knows-where manipulating him.”
“Me, manipulating? Isnt this you forcing me to sell my home?”
Robert cleared his throat.
“Margaret, perhaps”
“Hush, Robert!” she snapped. “Emma, be reasonable. Youll be comfier at ours. Big kitchen, garden, even a hot tub. What more could you want?”
“Freedom,” Emma replied.
“Freedom? From family?”
“From your CONTROL.”
Margaret reddened.
“Im controlling? I care! About my son, his future!”
“His future or YOURS?” Emma shot back. “Why do you need money from my flat?”
A heavy silence fell. Margaret and Robert exchanged glances. Oliver looked between them and his wife.
“Whats that supposed to mean?” he protested. “Em, youre out of line!”
“Its a fair question. If your parents are so well-off, why do they need my flats sale money?”
“Not yoursours! Were family!” Margaret cried.
“NO,” Emma said firmly. “The deeds are in my name. Its MINE.”
“Selfish!” her mother-in-law spat. “Oliver, see what you married?”
“Mum, calm down”
“Dont tell me what to do! I raised you, gave up everything for you! And you bring thisinto our home”
“Enough,” Emma stood. “Please LEAVE.”
“What?” Oliver gaped. “Em, you cant chuck out my parents!”
“I can, and I am. Margaret, Robertgoodbye.”
His mother stood, shaking with rage.
“Oliver, were leaving. If your wife scorns family, weve no place here.”
“But, Mum”
“Now!”
Oliver hesitated, then followed. The door slammed. Alone, Emma saw the papers Margaret had broughtestate agent listings, solicitor contacts, even a draft contract.
“They had it all planned,” she realised. “Never doubted Id comply.”
The next days passed in silence. Oliver slept on the sofa, left early, came home late. Any attempts to talk were met with grunts.
On Thursday, Emma returned from work to find a stranger jotting notes in her hallway.
“Who are you? Howd you get in?”
“James Wilkinson, surveyor,” the man said. “Your husband gave me keys to value the flat.”
“He had no right. Please leave.”
“But Im nearly done”
“OUT. Now.”
The man left. Emma rang Oliver.
“How dare you bring a surveyor without asking?”
“Just getting a proper valuation. No law against it.”
“Oliver, this is MY flat. You dont get to decide.”
“Youre my wife. Whats yours is mine.”
“NO. Its pre-marital.”
“Technicalities. Were married.”
“Love doesnt mean STEALING my home.”
“Steal? Youre accusing me of theft?”
“What else do you call selling someone elses property?”
Oliver hung up. He didnt come home. Emma rang his mate Liam.
“Hes with me,” Liam said. “Em, whats going on?”
“Ask him.”
“He says you wont compromise with his parents.”
“I wont sell my flat. Is that a crime?”
“No, but meet halfway?”
“How? Sell it and rely on his mum?”
Liam hesitated.
“Dunno. But Ollies gutted. Says his mums in bits.”
“Let her cry. Not my reason to lose my home.”
Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. A woman in a sharp suit stood there.
“Eleanor Whitmore, solicitor for the Harrisons,” she said. “May I come in?”
HarrisonMargarets maiden name. Reluctantly, Emma let her in.
“Emma, Im here about the flat.”
“Not for sale.”
“I understand. But objectively, youve been married to Oliver for three years. In that time, the Harrisons have done much for you.”
“Like what?”
“The wedding paid for, holidays in Spain, gifts”
“Gifts, not loans. Or did Margaret expect payback?”
Eleanor smiled.
“Margaret is generous. But shes entitled to expect the same.”
“So, BLACKMAIL?”
“Not at all. Just reminding you family means mutual support.”
“Support isnt ROBBERY.”
“Youre overreacting. The sale money would benefit the family.”
“What benefit?”
Eleanor faltered.
“Thats private.”
“If its about my flat, its MY business.”
“Emma, dont make this difficult. Margarets willing to compromisesay, a nice room at theirs.”
“How KIND. A room for a two-bedder.”
“Plus a loving family.”
“A family trying to fleece me.”
Eleanor sighed.
“Youre being stubborn. Oliver could divorce you.”
“Let him.”
“And claim half the marital assets.”
“The flats pre-marital. Not shared.”
“But you redid the bedroom during the marriage. With Olivers money.”
Emma laughed.
“You mean the £50 wallpaper? Seriously?”
“Any improvements can make property joint.”
“Try proving that in court.”
Eleanor stood.
“Think hard. Is bricks and mortar worth losing family over?”
“Im not the one losing it.”
The solicitor left a card. Emma tore it up.
Monday at work, her colleague Sophie approached.
“Em, is it true youre divorcing?”
“Whered you hear that?”
“Oliver posted online. Says you kicked him out and dont care about family.”
Emma checked her phone. Olivers post whinged about her “selfishness,” how she prized “things over love.”
“I suggested living at my parentsa warm welcome awaits,” hed written. “But shed rather hoard an old flat than save our marriage.”
Dozens of comments sided with him, slagging off the “greedy wife.”
Emma called him.
“Delete that post.”
“Why? Its true.”
“Its LIES. I didnt kick you out. You left.”
“After you slagged off my mum.”
“Oliver, DELETE it or Ill post my side.”
“Go ahead. See who they believe.”
That evening, Emma wrote her versionfacts only: the push to sell her flat, his mums pressure, the solicitors threats.
The row blew up. Friends took sides. Some backed Emma, others Oliver.
A week later, Oliver returned. He looked roughpale, bloodshot.
“Em, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Us. Our future.”
“Do we HAVE one?”
Oliver slumped on the sofa, head in hands.
“I dont want divorce. But Mum”
“What about her?”
“She says if I dont make you sell, shell cut me from the will.”
“And whats in that will?”
“The house, savings, Dads shares.”
“So youre picking between me and your parents money?”
“Its not that simple!”
“It is. Either you love and respect me, or you love Mums MONEY.”
“Stop simplifying!”
“Then stop dodging. Oliver, be honestwhy does your mum need my flats money?”
Silence. Then, quietly:
“Theyre in DEBT.”
“What? I thought they were loaded!”
“Were. Dad invested badly. Lost nearly everything. The house is mortgaged.”
Emma sat beside him.
“Why not say so straight off?”
“Mum forbade it. Said its family business.”
“And the fix is to flog my flat?”
“Itd buy time. Pay off the worst creditors.”
“Oliver, thats not fixingits patching HOLES.”
“Got a better idea? Let them lose the house?”
“Honesty. Had they been upfront, we couldve worked something out.”
“Like what?”
“Rent the flat out. Steady income.”
“Mum would never live off your rent money.”
“Then she finds another way.”
Oliver paced.
“You dont get it. Losing the house would destroy her.”
“Oliver, Im sorry. Truly. But I wont pay for their mistakes.”
“Their mistakes? Theyre my parents!”
“To me, theyre NEARLY STRANGERS. Especially after how theyve treated me.”
“Youre heartless!”
“Realistic. Your parents lied, bullied, humiliated me. Now I should hand over my flat?”
“To us! Were family!”
“NO, Oliver. Family means trust. Not lies and guilt trips.”
He grabbed his jacket.
“You know what? Mum was right. You only care about yourself.”
“And you only care about your mum. Maybe thats the real issue.”
He slammed the door. His phone, left on the table, lit up with a text:
“Son, how did it go? Did she agree?”
Emma didnt read more. She left it on the shelf and went to bed.
Next morning, the phone kept ringing. Emma ignored it. At noon, pounding on the door.
“Emma, open up! I know youre in there!” Margaret shouted.
Emma opened the door on the chain.
“What do you want?”
“Olivers phone! Dont play daft!”
“Its on the shelf. He forgot it.”
“Give it here now!”
“He can fetch it himself.”
“He doesnt want to see you!”
“Likewise.”
Margaret turned purple.
“How dare you! Ill call the police!”
“Go on. Explain why youre harassing me.”
“Its my sons home too!”
“No. Hes not on the lease.”
Over her shoulder, Robert peered out.
“Margaret, lets go. No scene.”
“Quiet! That girl ruined our boy!”
“Your boy ruined himself choosing money over his wife.”
“What do you know about”
Elderly neighbours, the Thompsons, appeared.
“Whats all this?” Mr Thompson asked sternly.
“Nothing,” Emma said. “Ex-family collecting a phone.”
“Ex?” Mrs Thompson asked.
“Future ex,” Emma clarified.
Margaret tried to argue, but Robert tugged her toward the lift.
“Come on. Oliver can sort this.”
After they left, the Thompsons gave Emma sympathetic looks.
“Need help, just knock,” Mrs Thompson said.
“Thanks, but Im fine.”
That evening, Oliver collected his phone and some clothes.
“Ill get the rest later,” he muttered.
“Oliver, wait. We need to discuss the divorce.”
“Whats to discuss? You chose.”
“So did you.”
He paused at the door.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I did. Till you tried to STEAL my home.”
“I wasnt stealing! I was helping my parents!”
“At my cost. Thats theft.”
He left. Emma leaned against the door, equal parts hurt and relievedlike shedding a heavy coat.
The divorce was quick. Oliver didnt contest the flat, knowing hed lose. Emma asked for nothing else.
A month later, she bumped into Liam at a café.
“Hows Oliver?” she asked, stirring her tea.
“Dunno. We dont speak.”
“I do,” Liam said. “All three are crammed in a one-bed in Peckham. Lost the house to debts.”
Emma nodded. Shed guessed as much.
“Margarets working at Boots now,” he added. “Olivers just a desk jockey. Skint.”
“I do feel for them,” Emma said, and meant it.
“Oliver asks about you. Says he messed up.”
“Too late.”
Liam finished his coffee.
“You happy?”
Emma smiled.
“Finally redid the balcony. New chair, potted plants. Mornings with a book, I think: Made the right call.”
“No regrets?”
“Not one. Nans flat only felt like home after the lies left. Now its just me, and thats enough. For now.”
She stood, slinging her bag.
“Best go. Workmen are comingredecorating the bedroom. My money, my flat, my rules.”
Walking home, she breathed in the spring airand her freedom.
