No Country Escape for Us!
Emma had barely turned the key in the lock when she sensed something was off. The flat wasn’t empty. Voices drifted from the kitchen—one deep, the other older and womanly. Her mother-in-law had dropped by unannounced. Emma grimaced. Their relationship was polite but strained, always laced with passive-aggressive remarks. She didn’t feel like facing it. A quick walk to the shops would do—let the woman stay and leave on her own.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she froze. Her husband George’s tone with his mother was… different. Something about it made her pause. She listened—and what she heard left her numb.
“Don’t worry, Emma will agree to the cottage soon,” George said smoothly.
“Make sure it’s in your name,” his mother replied. Emma’s eyebrows shot up. Seriously?
“I’ll find a way to convince her. Even if I don’t, we’ll buy it together—split the cost. But her flat stays hers if we divorce? That’s not fair. We’ve lived here two years. I deserve something too.”
Emma’s blood ran cold. Divorce?
“Of course you do. You and Sophie could get something bigger afterward. How are things with her, anyway?”
Sophie? Who the hell was Sophie?
“She’s fine. Wants me to hurry up with the divorce, but I’ve told her—patience. Once the cottage is ours, I’ll file. Emma’s gullible. I’ll convince her to move the money to my account. Safer that way.”
Emma clutched the wall. Her ears rang. Memories flashed—their first date, the estate agent’s office just hours ago, where she’d planned to surprise him by selling her flat for that damn cottage. The cake she’d bought for him still sat in her bag.
Mum had been right. Never sell. The flat was her safety net.
Silently, she marched to the bedroom, yanked out a suitcase, and started packing. George appeared in the doorway a minute later.
“Emma? You’re back? What are you doing?”
Her voice shook. “Planning to put my flat in your name, were you? Think again. The renovations were my money—I’ve got every digital receipt. Everything we bought? We’ll split it. Consider the free ride over.”
His mother, hearing her tone, vanished. George stammered, backpedaled, denied everything. Too late.
Then it all clicked.
At twenty-one, her parents had gifted her a one-bed flat. “This is your anchor,” Mum had said. “Never sell it. You’ll always have a place to return to.” Back then, it felt excessive. Now? Every word was a prophecy.
She’d met George a year after uni. Fell hard. They moved in together—he insisted, saying, “A man should bring a woman into his home.” She’d rented her flat out, splitting the income between shared expenses and savings.
Then came the wedding. Guest money went into renovating George’s place. Mum fretted—why invest in someone else’s property? Emma brushed it off: “I live here too.”
Then the shift. George grew distant, irritable, late nights. Then, like a switch, sweet again. Flowers. Compliments. Talk of cottages—fresh air, barbecues, future kids. He nudged: “Your flat’s too small. We’ll buy later. A cottage first.”
She’d almost agreed. Wanted to make him happy. Even visited a property agent on her day off. Then she came home and heard everything.
Her husband and his mother had already divided her assets. Planned to leave her with nothing. Use her money, then discard her.
No tears came. Just ice-cold betrayal.
That night, Emma left. Her parents stood by her. Mum hugged her—no words needed.
Back in her one-bed, she ran her fingers over the walls, gazed out the window. Then she sat on the sill and whispered,
“You’re the one thing I won’t divorce. The only stability I’ve got left.”
In this world, that was worth its weight in gold.
Because now, the only things she trusted were her mother’s words and these four walls.
