**Diary Entry**
*10th July, London*
Mum isnt going anywhere! Its *you* wholl be out on the street! her husband shouted, forgetting exactly whose flat this was.
Emily stood by the window, the July heat pressing down on the city. Outside, children darted between the trees in the square, chasing shade.
Em, wheres my shirt? came from the bedroom. The striped one!
In the wardrobe, she replied without turning. Top shelf.
James appeared in the doorway, fastening the buttons. Tall, broad-shouldered, hands roughened from years as a mechanic. Once, those hands had seemed strong, dependable.
Listen, he said, adjusting his collar. Mums coming round tonight. Tidy up properlylast time she went on about dust all evening.
Emily turned slowly. That familiar irritation tightened in her chest.
Your mum always finds something wrong, she said quietly. Last time it was the roast being dry, before that the mash was lumpy.
Then do better, James shrugged, as if discussing the weather. Shes got experience, shes only trying to help, and you take offence.
Emily clenched her fists. This flat was *hers*. Shed bought it before theyd even met, furnished it herself, spent every penny of her savings on the renovation. Now Margaret swept in every visit, rearranged everything, lectured her on where things *should* go.
James, we live in *my* flat, she reminded him. Maybe you could remember that?
Her husband froze, hand on the door handle.
Whats that supposed to mean? His voice darkened. That I dont belong here?
I mean your mum acts like she owns the place, Emily stepped forward. And you let her.
Mum *cares* about us! James turned fully to face her. About her *family*! She even gave up her own place for my brother!
Emily gave a bitter smile. That tired old story about helping the younger generation had worn thin.
Your mum gave Simon a one-bed two years ago, she said slowly. So what? Now she gets to boss me around in my own home?
*Our* home! James snapped. Were married!
On your thirty-grand salary, wed be renting a shoebox in Croydon, the words slipped out before she could stop them.
His face darkened. He stepped closer, looming over her.
So now youre throwing that in my face? His voice shook. Because I dont earn enough?
Im not, Emily lifted her chin. Just stating facts. Your mum rents now because she gave Simon her flat. Yet she lectures *us* on how to live.
Simon *needed* the help! James turned to the window. Young family, planning kids!
Kids, Emily repeated. Always about kids.
He spun back around, eyes blazing.
And what, isnt it time? Weve been married five years and you keep putting it off. A proper wife wants children!
On *what*, James? She spread her hands. Your wages? Do you know how much nappies cost? School uniforms? Medicine?
Wed manage, he waved it off. Everyone does!
Everyone, Emily shook her head. And Id be stuck on maternity pay while you break your back at the garage for peanuts?
Outside, pigeons cooed in the eaves. James fell silent, jaw tight.
You know what, he finally said. Enough. Mums got problems.
What now? Emily stepped away from the window.
She cant afford rent anymore, James rubbed his neck. Her pension doesnt cover it, and the landlord doubled it.
Emily nodded. Margaret had moaned for months about prices. It was only logical shed move in with Simoninto the very flat shed given him.
Right, Emily said. So Simons lot will have to make space.
James straightened, eyes hardening.
Mums staying *here*, he declared. Temporarily, till she sorts something.
Emily went still. The words rang hollow in her ears.
*Here?* she repeated. In this flat?
Yeah, here! James raised his voice. Whats the issue? Theres room.
James, where? The *living room?*
Whats wrong with that? he crossed his arms. Mums given everything for her kids, and youre being selfish!
Emily backed against the wall, indignation boiling inside.
Why not with Simon? she asked quietly. Hes got the flat she gave him.
Theyve got a *kid*! James roared. They need the space! Arent *we* family too?
We are. But this flat is *mine*, Emily reminded him.
His face twisted. He stepped closer.
Stingy! Always thinking of yourself! A decent wife would stand by her husband in hard times!
Emily pressed against the wall. He was too close, suffocating.
You wont give me kids, at least help family this way! he went on. Mums sacrificed everything for us!
James, listen she began, but he cut her off.
Maybe you dont *want* a family? Just say it!
Emily dropped her gaze. He knew how to twist the knife, exactly where to press. Guilt washed over her.
Fine, she said quietly. She can stay a while.
A week later, Margaret moved into the living room. Three suitcases in tow, she rearranged everythingTV by the window, sofa against the wall, Emilys plants exiled to the balcony.
Needs more light in here, her mother-in-law explained, shoving furniture. And those pots just collect dust.
Emily watched in silence as her home became a strangers. James hauled boxes, fussing over his mother.
Mum, you alright here? he asked gently.
Ill cope, Margaret sighed. Though its a bit cramped.
Three months passed. Emily became a ghost in her own home. Tiptoeing, apologising for every noise.
Margaret took over entirely. She binned Emilys washing powder, replaced it with her own. Banned her favourite biscuits.
These are too dear, get the own-brand, she ordered in Tesco. No sense wasting money.
Each morning, Emily cleaned under Margarets watchful eye. Then, taking out the rubbish, something caught her eye. She bent down, heart lurching.
Her childhood photo album. The one with school plays, birthday parties. Her only keepsake.
Hands trembling, she pulled it free, tea-stained and damp.
Margaret, she called, stepping back inside. Why was this in the bin?
Her mother-in-law didnt look up from *Coronation Street*.
Oh, that? Chucking out clutter. No need for junk.
These are my *photos*! Emilys voice cracked.
Ancient history, Margaret waved her off. Why keep it?
Something inside Emily *snapped*. Three months of swallowed rage erupted.
*Get out!* she screamed. Out of my flat*now!*
Margaret leapt up, eyes blazing.
How *dare* you disrespect your elders! she shrieked. Know your place!
James burst from the bedroom, taking his mothers side instantly.
Mums not going anywhere! he roared. *Youll* be the one on the street!
But Emilys anger had cooled to ice. She looked at them both, calm and clear.
This flats in *my* name, she said firmly. I decide who lives here.
You *witch*! James stepped closer, face purple. Im your *husband!*
*Ex*-husband, Emily corrected, turning to the wardrobe.
She yanked out a duffel bag, began stuffing in Margarets thingsblouses, cardigans, nightieswithout care.
Youve lost it! James shouted. Stop this *now!*
Emily ignored him. She grabbed slippers from under the sofa, tossed them in. Margaret scrambled, snatching back her belongings.
Love, *think*! she pleaded. Were *family!*
Family? Emily whirled around. Family doesnt bin childhood photos!
Margaret shrunk back. James lunged for the bag, but Emily sidestepped.
Mums given *everything* for her kids! he bellowed. And you toss her out like rubbish!
Five years Ive put up with you, Emily zipped the bulging bag. Three months Ive been a stranger in my own home!
She marched to the bedroom, hauled out Jamess thingsjumpers, shirts, jeansall into another bag. He followed, grabbing her wrist.
*Think!* Where do we *go?*
Not my problem, Emily wrenched free. Try Simons.
Theres no *room* at Simons! Margaret wailed. Theyve a *baby!*
And *Ive* got *me!* Emily shouted back, dragging both bags to the door.
She returned for shoes, toiletries, knick-knacks.
Youll rot alone! James spat, shoving on his jacket. Youll *beg* us to come back!
Emily held the door open, silent. Margaret sniffled, cramming the last of her things into a holdall.
Dear, *reconsider*, she begged. Where will we *live?*
Where you lived before *me*, Emily replied.
James stormed out, bag in hand. On the step, he turned, face twisted.
Margaret shuffled out last, dragging her cases. From the landing, she glared back.
*Ungrateful!* she screeched. We only wanted whats *best* for you!
Emily shut the door. Turned the lock, slid the chain. Shouts, footsteps, the lift doors clanging echoed up the stairwell.
Thensilence.
Emily leaned against the door, breathing deep. For the first time in months, no blaring telly, no groaning sofa under Margarets weight.
She walked to the living room. Put the sofa back, turned the telly round. Brought her plants inside.
Then she sat, cradling the rescued album. Flipped throughschool plays, a fifth birthday, nursery graduation.
And suddenly, she *laughed*. Soft at first, then louder. Laughter turned to sobs, then back to laughter. She clutched the album, tears streaming.
The flat was *hers* again. Hers alone.
