I loved my husband, but he was devoted only to his mother.
Emily and I had been friends since school and later attended the same university in Manchester. The story I’m about to tell happened to her in her final year, and to this day, I can’t come to terms with the injustice she faced. It began like a fairy tale—an unexpected inheritance, a chance to change her life, a move to London. But it ended in betrayal—the cruelest kind, the kind only family can deliver.
Her father’s elder brother, Uncle William, had spent his whole life in London. He built his business from scratch, made his fortune, but luck in love had eluded him. He never married or had children, so all his affection went to his niece. Emily was the light of his life. He spoiled her with gifts, called her every week, and took pride in her studies. Then he passed away—quietly, alone. He had been ill for some time but told no one. Emily only learned of his death after the funeral when his solicitor reached out.
It turned out he had left her a flat in central London—spacious, with high ceilings and freshly renovated. Her father received a portion of the money, but the property was meant for Emily alone. At the time, it seemed like all doors were opening—London, a new life, endless possibilities. There was just one problem: Emily held only Irish citizenship, meaning she couldn’t legally inherit the property. She had a year to find a solution.
Her father suggested a way out—register the flat under her cousin, Sophie, his younger sister’s daughter. Sophie had lived in London for years, married a British man, and already had citizenship. She agreed at once, promising that once Emily sorted her paperwork, she’d transfer the property back. Everyone trusted her.
Emily enrolled in a London university, moved into student housing, and began gathering documents. Things seemed to be going well—she studied, took part-time jobs, and applied for residency. Then Sophie turned up at her door, claiming she was divorcing and needed a place to stay with her son. “Just for a little while,” she insisted. Emily didn’t argue and let her in. She had no idea she was inviting disaster into her life.
Three months later, Emily returned to her flat—only to find her belongings packed into bin bags in the hallway. The door wouldn’t open; the locks had been changed. She rang the bell, knocked, even cried. No answer. She called the police. When they arrived, Sophie opened the door—calm, self-assured. She showed them the paperwork, and they shrugged. Everything was legal. Even the neighbours insisted that only “Sophie and her son” lived there. Not a word about Emily.
Emily stood in the stairwell, tears streaming down her face, clutching her suitcase. I picked her up, put her in a cab, and took her away. She didn’t say a word—just stared out the window, lips pressed tight. Later came court hearings, letters, solicitors—all pointless. The flat that was meant to be her fresh start had been stolen, stolen by family.
Now, Emily lives in a rented room, juggling three jobs to save for a home of her own. Sophie, according to whispers, has since remarried—conveniently, to the very estate agent who helped her sell the London flat.
This is how it goes: you trust, you hope, you believe. And then you’re betrayed—not by strangers, but by your own. Family.
