The house was silent, save for the hum of the radiator.
“Flat? What do you mean, *your* flat?”
“Mum, Grandads old place. He left it to me. You even rented it out for a while. Dont you remember?” Emilys voice wavered.
“Oh… *That* flat.” Her mother, Margaret, shrugged dismissively. “It was never yours. I sold it.”
Emilys pulse spiked. Her heart clawed at her ribs. Knees buckling, she slumped onto the sofa.
“You *sold* it?”
“The usual way. Listed it online, found a buyer. Peters car broke downyou know hes useless without it. Needed a new one.”
Emily couldnt speak. She hung up, throat tight as if shed swallowed glass.
She remembered Grandads proud grin as he showed off the freshly painted bedroom, murmuring, *”All yours one day, love. A proper little fortress. Youll thank me then.”* His calloused hand ruffled her hair.
Hed died when she was twelve. Back then, owning a flat meant nothingjust a vague *good thing* she couldnt fully grasp. So when Mum announced shed hold it in trust, Emily barely blinked.
“Legally, its mine for now,” Margaret had said. “Grandad didnt want you squandering it. Ill rent it outcover bills, spruce it up. Youd rather inherit something decent, right?”
“Suppose so,” Emily agreed.
“Exactly. Tenants are *my* headache. When youre older, well transfer it. Trust me.”
Years passed. The flat faded into the backgrounduntil sixth form, when Emily broached the subject again.
“Mum, Sarah and I are applying to the same uni,” she ventured. “Thought we could share the flat? Split costs, live properly…”
Shed expected a rubber stamp. Visions of independencelate-night chats, shared takeawaysdanced in her head. Instead:
“Adult life at eighteen? On what wages?” Margaret scoffed. “Youd burn out juggling work and studies. And what if Sarah ditches you for some lad? Then its *Mummy, save me!*”
The sting festered beneath her ribs, but Mums logic held. She *was* older. Wiser.
Emily apologised to Sarah. The dream crumpleduntil Margaret offered an alternative.
“Why not apply out of town? Halls are free. Same independence, just cheaper. Ill send rent moneynot loads, but enough.”
Emily nearly wept with gratitude. She kissed Margarets cheek, dizzy with relief.
The first term was golden. Then the transfers shrank.
“Dentist bill,” Margaret explained. “Tighter belts this month.”
Next, delays. Rent came in on the tenth; Emilys cut arrived weeks late. Then not at all.
Worse, she learned Margaret had moved Peter in.
A married man*”separating, just paperwork”*who leeched off her. Margaret moaned about him nightly: *”Borrowed fifty quid for the kids! Why should I feed his brood?”*
“And you *lent* it?” Emily hissed.
“What choice did I have? Decent men dont grow on trees!”
Peter freeloadedfree roof, free meals. When the taps failed, he charged triple. His sole gift? A tacky lamp Margaret half-paid for herself.
Then came the plots: countryside plots, *”our future home”*his name on the deeds. Margaret swooned over imaginary gazebos.
“Hes a parasite!” Emily yelled.
“Youre jealous!” Margaret snapped. “I deserve happiness!”
By third year, the money stopped entirely.
“Laid off,” Margaret said bluntly.
Emily seethedthis was *her* rent moneybut stayed silent. She tutored, moderated forums, scraped by.
At graduation, she called Margaret, ready to reclaim the flat.
Then the truth: *gone*. Sold for Peters car.
But Emily had a card to play. The council house Mum lived in? Half was hers.
“Buy me out,” she said, voice steel. “Or I sell my share to strangers.”
Margaret exploded. *”After all Ive done? Youre worse than your father!”*
Emily hung up. Next morning, a solicitors letter. No meeting. No theatrics.
A month later, the money landed. Enough for a fresh start.
“Sorry, Grandad,” she whispered. *But you taught me not to trust promises.*
The guilt gnawed. Hed wanted harmonytwo homes, two happy lives. Instead, her home became Peters tyres. So she played dirty.
Just like Mum.
