**Diary Entry 15th March**
The breeze was crisp today, fresh after a long winter. Id just settled into the wicker chair on the balcony with a book when Oliver appeared in the doorway. He had that lookthe one he gets when hes decided something without consulting me.
Were selling your flat and moving in with Mum and Dad, he said, stepping outside. Theyve sorted everythinga room upstairs, our own bathroom. Itll be easier.
I set the book down, my fingers lingering on the page. Sorry, what?
He repeated it, as if I were the one being unreasonable. Three years of marriage, and I still couldnt tell if he was serious.
Oliver, this was Nanas flat. She left it to *me*.
So? The place needs work, bills are sky-high. My parents house has space. Well put the sale money into savings.
*Whose* savings?
Ours, obviously. Mum says its the sensible thing. Shes good with money.
I stood and gripped the railing. Below, kids played in the garden. I used to be one of them, visiting Nana in the summers, chasing ice cream vans down the lane.
Your mother decided what happens to *my* home?
Dont start, Emily. Were talking about this like adults.
Talking? Youve already made up your mind.
He reached for my hand. I pulled away.
Its logical. Why keep two places? My parents are getting onthey need help. And this flat? Its just a two-bed in a commuter town.
My childhoods here, I said quietly. Nana left it to me because she knew Id care for it.
Sentiment doesnt pay bills. Mums rightweve got to think ahead.
Whose ahead? Hers?
His jaw tightened. Oliver never could bear criticism of his parents, especially his mother. Margaret had raised him alone till she met Richard when he was ten. Ever since, hed defended her like it was his duty.
Emily, enough. Its decided. Were seeing the estate agent Monday.
Decided by *who*?
By me. Im the head of this family.
I laughedbitter, not amused.
Head of the family? Seriously? Were partners, Oliver. Or I thought we were.
Partners compromise. Mum sold her flat when she married Dad, and theyre fine.
She sold a studio in Croydon and moved into his detached house in Surrey. Bit different.
His face flushed. He hated when I pointed out the obvious.
Dont talk about my parents like that!
Im stating facts. And heres anotherIm *not* selling.
Well see, he snapped, storming off.
I stayed on the balcony. The sun warmed my face as I thought of Nana, whod worked as a nurse her whole life to buy this place. *A woman should always have a home of her own, love,* shed say.
That evening, Oliver brought his parents over for tea. I knew better. Margaret swept in first, eyes cataloguing every flaw.
No ones touched this place in twenty years, she announced. Peeling wallpaper, creaky floors. Imagine the cost to fix it!
Richard lingered behind, quiet as ever.
Tea? Coffee? I offered.
Earl Grey, no sugar, Margaret said. We watch our figures.
In the kitchen, Oliver followed. Dont sulk. Theyre trying to help.
Help *who*? This isnt their decision.
Its not like youll be homeless.
No, just trapped in *your* parents house, living by *their* rules.
Back in the lounge, Margaret had spread papers across the table. Sit, Emily. We need to discuss details.
What details?
The sale, of course. Ive had a valuation. Its not worth much, but every bit helps.
Margaret, Im *not* selling.
Her eyebrows shot up. Oliver said you agreed.
Oliver *lied*.
Emily! he protested. We talked
*You* talked. I said *no*.
Margarets face hardened. Young lady, you dont grasp the situation. Olivers my only son. I wont let some
Some *what*? I cut in.
Some girl with no family sense ruin his future.
*Im* ruining it? By keeping *my* home?
Richard cleared his throat. Margaret, perhaps
Quiet, Richard! She turned back to me. Be reasonable. Our house has a garden, a conservatory. What more could you want?
Freedom, I said.
From *what*?
From your *control*.
She flushed. I *care* about my sons future!
Or *yours*? I asked. Why do you need *my* flats money?
Silence. Oliver looked between us, lost.
Whats that supposed to mean? he demanded.
Its a simple question. If theyre so well-off, why take *my* home?
Its *family* money! Margaret cried.
No, I said firmly. The deeds are in *my* name.
Selfish! she spat. Oliver, see what you married?
Mum, calm down
Dont tell *me* what to do! I raised you, and this is how you repay me?
Enough, I said, standing. Leave. *Now*.
Oliver gaped. You cant throw them out!
Watch me. Margaret, Richardgoodbye.
She stood, trembling. Oliver, were leaving. If your wife wont value family, neither should you.
But
*Now*!
He wavered, then turned to me. Apologise. Youre out of line.
For *what*? Defending my home?
For insulting my mother!
She insulted *me* first. But you never notice.
His fists clenched. Maybe Mums right. You *are* selfish.
And youre a mummys boy. Maybe you shouldve married *her*?
He paled. Margaret grabbed his arm. Come. Shes not worth it.
The slam of the door echoed. Alone, I sifted through Margarets papersestate agent flyers, contracts. Theyd planned it all, never doubting Id cave.
The next days passed in silence. Oliver slept on the sofa, left early, returned late. Thursday, I came home to a stranger pacing the flat, scribbling notes.
Who are you?
Simon Davies, valuer. Your husband let me in.
*Exclusive*, I corrected, showing him out. Olivers excuse? I just wanted to know its worth.
Its *mine*, Oliver. Not yours.
Were married. Whats yours is mine.
Not legally. And love isnt theft.
He hung up. Didnt come home. His mate James called later: Hes upset. His mums in tears.
Let her cry. Its not a reason to take my home.
Saturday brought a solicitorMargarets, from her maiden-name firm. Eleanor Whitmore, she introduced herself. Lets discuss the flat.
No discussion. Its not for sale.
She smiled thinly. Three years of marriageyour in-laws have been *generous*. Weddings, holidays
Gifts, not loans. Or does Margaret keep score?
Family means *compromise*.
Compromise isnt *surrender*.
She left a card. I tore it up.
Monday, a colleague mentioned Olivers social media posta sob story about his selfish wife choosing bricks over family. Comments piled up, vilifying me. I posted my side: the pressure, the threats. The scandal split our friends in two.
A week later, Oliver returned, gaunt. I dont want a divorce, he mumbled. But Mum says if I dont make you sell, Im cut out of the will.
So its me or *money*?
Its not that simple!
It is. Choose.
He hesitated. Theyre in debt. Dads investments failed. The house is mortgaged.
*Finally*, the truth.
And *my* flats the solution?
Itd buy time.
I sighed. If theyd been honest, maybe wed have worked something out. But lying? Manipulating? No.
He left, slamming the door. His phone buzzed on the tableMargaret: *Did she agree?*
I didnt reply.
Next morning, fists pounded the door. Open up! Margaret shrieked.
I left the chain on. What?
Olivers phone! Hand it over!
He can collect it himself.
He *doesnt want to see you*!
Likewise.
She spluttered. Richard hovered, embarrassed. Our neighbours peered out. Everything alright, Emily? Mrs. Henderson asked.
Fine. Just farewells.
Margaret hissed, but Richard pulled her away.
Oliver returned that night for his things. Ill get the rest later, he muttered.
We need to discuss the divorce.
Whats to discuss? You chose a *flat* over me.
No. I chose *me* over your mothers greed.
The divorce was quick. He didnt fight for the flatknew hed lose. I asked for nothing else.
A month later, I ran into James. Olivers in a bedsit with his parents, he said. Lost the house. His mums working at Boots now.
I nodded. I do pity them.
He says he was wrong.
Too late.
James studied me. Are you happy?
I smiled. Fixed up the balcony last week. New chair, flowers. Sat there this morning, thinking Nana was right. A woman *should* have her own place.
He hesitated. No regrets?
None. The flat finally feels like *mine*. No lies, no pressure. Just me.
I left, walking home lightly. The workers were coming to redo the bedroom*my* choice, *my* money.
Spring sunshine, quiet streets, keys in my hand. *Freedom.*
