**Diary Entry**
I loved my husband, but he was devoted only to his mother.
Emily and I had been friends since school, and later we ended up at the same university in York. The story I’m about to tell happened to her in our 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 worst kind, the kind that comes from family.
Her father’s elder brother, Uncle Edward, had spent his whole life in London. He’d built his business from scratch, made good money, but in matters of the heart, luck had eluded him. No wife, no children—he poured all his affection into his niece. Emily was the light of his life. He spoiled her with gifts, called every week, asked after her studies. Then he died. Quietly, alone. He’d been ill for a long time but told no one. Emily only learned of his death after the funeral—summoned by a solicitor.
Turns out, her uncle had left her a flat in central London—spacious, high-ceilinged, freshly renovated. Her father received a portion of the money, but the property was left solely to her. Back then, it seemed like all doors had opened—London, a fresh start, opportunities. Only one thing stood in her way: Emily held a foreign passport, meaning she couldn’t claim the inheritance outright. She had a year to find a solution.
Her father suggested a workaround—put the flat temporarily in the name of his niece, his younger sister’s daughter, Claire. She’d lived in London for years, married a Brit, had a son, and already had citizenship. Claire agreed immediately, promising they’d transfer it back once Emily sorted her legal status. Everyone trusted her.
Emily enrolled in a London university, moved into student halls, and started gathering documents. Everything seemed fine—she studied, took part-time jobs, applied for residency. Then Claire turned up on her doorstep, saying she was getting divorced and needed a place for her and her son. “Just for a little while,” she insisted. Emily didn’t argue; she let them in. She didn’t know she was inviting disaster into her life.
Three months later, Emily arrived at her flat. Her belongings were stuffed into a carrier bag in the hallway. The door wouldn’t open—the locks had been changed. She rang the bell, knocked, wept. No answer. She called the police. When they arrived, Claire answered—calm, confident. She showed them the paperwork, and the officers shrugged. Everything was legal. Even the neighbours insisted only “Claire and her little boy” lived there. They acted as if Emily didn’t exist.
She stood in that stairwell with her suitcase, tears streaming down her face. I picked her up, put her in a cab, and took her home. She didn’t speak a word—just stared out the window, lips pressed tight. After that came court hearings, letters, solicitors. Useless. The flat, which should have been her new beginning, had been stolen—by her own flesh and blood.
Now Emily rents a tiny room. She juggles three jobs, saving for a place of her own. And Claire, last I heard, remarried well. To the same estate agent who sold that London flat.
That’s how it goes—you trust, you hope, you believe. And then they betray you. Not enemies. Family.
