**Diary Entry 12th May**
The spring air was crisp but welcome after a long, dreary winter. I sat on the balcony with a book when Thomas stepped out, looking far too resolute for a Saturday morning.
Were selling your flat and moving in with my parents, he said. Mum and Dad have everything readya room upstairs, private loo. Itll be easier.
I set the book down slowly. Pardon?
He repeated it, word for word, as if that would make it sound reasonable. Three years of marriage had taught me his moods, but this? I couldnt place it.
Tom, this was Nans flat. She left it to me.
So? The place needs work, bills are steep. My parents have a big houseplenty of room. Well put the money from the sale into savings.
Whose savings? I asked.
Ours, obviously. Mum says its the sensible thing. Shes always been good with money.
I stood and walked to the railing. Below, kids played in the courtyard. I remembered doing the same when Nan watched me during holidays.
Your mum decided what I should do with my flat?
Dont start, Emily. Were talking this through calmly.
Talking? Youve handed me a done deal.
He reached for my hand. I pulled away.
Listen, its logical. Why keep two properties? My parents are getting onthey need help. And this place its just a two-bed in the suburbs.
My childhood was here, I said quietly. Nan left it to me because she knew Id care for it.
Sentiments sweet, but impractical. Mums rightweve got to think ahead.
Whose future? Hers?
Thomas stiffened. He never took well to anyone questioning his parents, especially his mother. Margaret had raised him alone till she met Richard. Ever since, hed defended her like it was his duty.
Enough. Its settled. Were meeting the estate agent Monday.
Settled by whom?
By me. Im the head of this family.
I laughedbitter, not amused.
Head of the family? Really? Tom, I thought we were equal.
Equal partners dont cling to relics. Mum sold her flat when she married Dad. They turned out fine.
She sold a studio in Croydon and moved into his Chelsea townhouse. Bit different.
His face flushed. He hated when I pointed out the obvious.
Dont you dare speak about my parents like that!
Im stating facts. Heres anotherI am NOT selling this flat.
Well see, he hissed, storming off.
I stayed on the balcony, the sun warming my face. I thought of Nan, whod worked her whole life as a nurse to buy this place. Em, shed say, a woman should always have her own corner. Remember that.
That evening, Thomas brought his parents over for tea. I knew better. Margaret swept in, eyeing the flat like a surveyor.
No ones touched this place in twenty years, she declared. Peeling wallpaper, creaky floors. Imagine the cost to make it decent!
Richard lingered in the parlour, silent as ever.
Tea? Coffee? I offered.
Earl Grey, no sugar, Margaret said. Watching our figures.
In the kitchen, Thomas followed. Dont sulk. Theyre trying to help.
Help with what? Taking my home?
You wont be homeless. Youll live with family.
By their rules, their schedule.
Whats wrong with rules? Mum likes order.
My hands shook as I set out biscuits.
Back in the parlour, Margaret had papers spread on the table. Sit, Emily. We need to discuss details.
What details?
The sale, of course. Ive had a looka property like this could fetch a tidy sum. Well have to lower for condition, but its decent.
Margaret, Im not selling.
Her brows shot up. Excuse me? Thomas said you agreed.
Thomas lied.
Em! he cut in. We talked about this
You talked. I said no.
Margaret straightened, face hardening. Girl, you dont grasp the situation. Thomas is my only son. I wont have some
Some what? I interrupted. Go on.
Some girl from God-knows-where manipulating him.
Im manipulating him? Youre the one demanding I sell my home!
Richard cleared his throat. Margaret, perhaps
Quiet, Richard! She turned back to me. Be reasonable. Youll be comfortable with uslarge kitchen, garden, even a pool. What more could you want?
Freedom, I said.
Freedom? From what? Family?
From your control.
She flushed. I care about my sons future!
His future or yours? I pressed. Why do you need money from my flat?
A silence. They exchanged glances. Thomas looked lost.
What rubbish! he sputtered. Emily, youre out of line!
Its a fair question. If your parents are so well-off, why do they need my flats money?
Not yoursours! Were family! Margaret cried.
No, I said firmly. The deeds in my name. Its mine.
Selfish! she snapped. Thomas, see what youve married?
Mum, calm down
Dont tell me what to do! I raised you, sacrificed for you! And you brought thisinto our lives
Thats enough. I stood. Leave my flat. Now.
What? Thomas gaped. You cant kick them out!
I can, and I am. Margaret, Richardgoodbye.
She stood, trembling. Thomas, were leaving. If your wife scorns family, weve no place here.
But, Mum
Now!
He looked between us, helpless. Emily, apologise. Youre wrong.
For what? Defending my home?
For insulting my mother!
She insulted me first. But of course you missed that.
He clenched his fists. Maybe Mums right. You only think of yourself.
And you only think of her. Maybe you shouldve married her instead?
He paled. Margaret grabbed his arm. Come, son. Dont waste breath on the ungrateful.
The door slammed. Alone, I stared at the paperslistings, agent contacts, even a draft contract.
Theyd planned it all. Never doubted Id comply.
Days passed in silence. Thomas slept on the sofa, left early, returned late. Conversations died in monosyllables.
Then, Thursday. I came home to a stranger jotting notes in the hall.
Who are you?
David Whitmore, valuer. Your husband gave me keys to assess the place.
He had no right. Leave.
But Im nearly done
Now.
He left. I called Thomas.
How dare you bring a valuer without asking?
Just checking the worth. Nothing illegal.
This is my flat. You dont decide for me.
Youre my wife. Whats yours is mine.
No. Its pre-marital.
Technicalities. We love each other.
Love doesnt mean stealing my home.
Stealing? Thats your accusation?
What else is trying to sell what isnt yours?
He hung up. Didnt come home. I rang his mate James.
Hes with me, James said. Emily, 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?
What halfway? Sell and be trapped by his mum?
James hesitated. Dunno. But Toms upset. Says his mums in tears.
Let her cry. Not my fault.
Saturday morning, the bell rang. A woman in a sharp suit stood there.
Eleanor Hart, solicitor for the Whitmore family, she said. May I come in?
WhitmoreMargarets maiden name. Reluctantly, I let her in.
Emily, lets discuss the flat.
Not for sale.
I understand. But objectivelyyouve been married three years. The Whitmores have done much for you.
Like what?
The wedding, holidays, gifts
Gifts, not loans. Or did Margaret expect repayment?
Eleanor smiled. Shes generous but expects reciprocity.
Blackmail, then?
Not at all. Family means mutual support.
Support isnt robbery.
No ones robbing you. Sale proceeds would benefit the family.
What benefit?
She faltered. Private matter.
If its about my flat, its my matter.
Dont make this difficult. Margarets offering a compromisea room with a balcony in their home.
How kind. A room for a two-bed flat.
Plus family warmth.
Warmth? More like a stranglehold.
Eleanor sighed. Thomas could file for divorce.
Let him.
Hed claim half the marital assets.
The flats pre-marital. Exempt.
But the bedroom was redone during marriage. With his money.
I laughed. You mean the paint job for £200? Seriously?
Any improvements can make it joint property.
Prove that in court.
She stood. Emily, think. Is property worth a broken family?
Im not the one breaking it.
She left a card. I tore it up.
Monday at work, my colleague Sophie approached.
Emily, is it true? Youre divorcing?
Whered you hear that?
Thomas posted online. Says you threw him out, care more for bricks than family.
I checked his pagea rant about my selfishness, how Id chosen an old flat over his parents loving home. Dozens of comments backed him, trashing the gold-digging wife.
I called him. Delete it.
Why? Its true.
Its lies. I didnt throw you out. You left.
After you insulted Mum.
Delete it, or Ill post my side.
Go ahead. See who they believe.
That evening, I wrote my versionfacts only: the pressure to sell, his mums interference, the solicitors threats.
The fallout was instant. Friends split into camps.
A week later, Thomas returned. Gaunt, red-eyed.
Emily, we need to talk.
About?
Us. Our future.
Do we have one?
He sank onto 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.
Whats in this will?
The house, accounts, Dads business.
So youre choosing: me or her money?
Its not that simple!
It is. Love me and respect my rights, or love her cash.
Dont twist it!
Then untangle it. Thomas, truthwhy does she 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.
I sat beside him. Why not say so sooner?
Mum forbade it. Family business.
And the solution is selling my flat?
Itll buy time. Pay off the worst creditors.
Thomas, thats not a fix. Its a plaster.
What then? Let them lose the house?
Honesty wouldve helped. We couldve worked something outlike renting the flat.
Mum would never live off your rent.
Then she finds another way.
He paced. You dont get it. Losing the house would destroy her.
Im sorry, truly. But I wont pay for their mistakes.
Their mistakes? Theyre my parents!
To me, theyre strangersespecially after how they treated me.
Youre heartless!
Realistic. They lied, bullied, humiliated me. Now I hand them my flat?
To us! Were family!
No. Family means trust. Not lies and greed.
He grabbed his coat. Mum was right. Youre selfish.
And youre a mummys boy. Maybe thats the real issue.
He slammed the door. His phone buzzed on the tablea text from Margaret:
*Son, howd it go? Did she agree?*
I didnt read more. Left it on the shelf and went to bed.
Next morning, the phone rang nonstop. At noon, pounding on the door.
Emily, open up! Margaret shouted.
I opened it on the chain.
What?
Thomass phone! Dont pretend you dont have it!
On the shelf. He forgot it.
Give it here!
He can fetch it himself.
He wont see you!
Good.
She turned purple. Ill call the police!
Do. Explain why youre harassing me.
Its my sons home too!
No. Hes not on the lease.
Richard peeked over her shoulder. Margaret, lets go. No scene.
Quiet! That girl ruined our boy!
Your boy ruined himself choosing your money over his wife.
What do you know of family? You
Our elderly neighbours, the Harrisons, appeared.
Everything alright? Mr. Harrison asked.
Fine, I said. Former in-laws collecting a phone.
Former? Mrs. Harrison said.
Soon-to-be, I clarified.
Margaret huffed, but Richard pulled her toward the lift.
That evening, Thomas came for his phone and some clothes.
Ill get the rest later, he muttered.
Thomas, wait. We need to sort the divorce.
Whats to sort? You chose.
So did you.
He paused in the doorway. I thought you loved me.
I did. Till you tried to steal my home.
I didnt steal! I was helping my parents!
At my expense. Thats theft.
He left. I leaned against the door, aching but lighter, as if a weight had gone.
The divorce was quick. Thomas didnt contest the flatknew hed lose. I asked for nothing else.
A month later, I ran into James at a café.
Hows Thomas? I asked, stirring my tea.
Dunno, I said, then smiled slightly. We dont speak.
I do, James said. All three of them are in a one-bed in Peckham. Lost the house to debts.
I nodded. Expected.
Margarets working at a Boots now, he added. Thomas is just a clerk. Skint.
I do pity them, I said, and meant it.
He asks about you. Says he was wrong.
Too late.
James sipped his tea. You happy?
I smiled. Fixed up the balcony. New chair, flowers. Mornings with a book, thinking how right I was.
No regrets?
None. Nans flat only became home when the lies left. Just me now, and thats enough. For now.
I stood, slinging my bag.
Must go. Workmen are comingnew wallpaper for the bedroom. My money, my flat. As it should be.
I walked home, savouring the spring sunand my freedom.
**Lesson learned:** A house isnt a home until its truly yoursnot just the walls, but the right to say who walks through the door. And sometimes, the price of keeping it is letting go of those who never belonged there in the first place.
