“Found a Warmer Shoulder to Lean On”
“Wait, stop! He blew through my money, and now I owe him even more? Since when?”
“He’s your father!” Mum blurted out.
Emily arched her brows so high her forehead wrinkled like an accordion. Her mother stared back, arms crossed. The kitchen was stuffy, the air thick. Just like their relationship.
“Dad left me half the flat. That man is nothing to me,” Emily replied calmly.
“You have to understand,” Gail argued. “He’s lived here ten years. He’s put into this place too, in his own way.”
Emily nearly scoffed, biting back a laugh.
“Helped? When exactly, Mum? When he stood over the stove lecturing me on how to fry his potatoes, even though he can’t even scramble an egg?”
“Well, maybe not financially,” her mother mumbled. “But he’s family. You used to call him ‘Dad.'”
Emily’s gaze drifted to the fridge magnets—old ones from family trips with her real father. The collection had stopped growing when Victor moved in.
“I called him that once, to make you happy,” she admitted quietly. “I was fourteen. And he waved it around like a banner.”
An unwelcome memory surfaced: Emily coming home humiliated after her friends went to the cinema without her. Victor had refused, saying, “A girl should stay home, not gad about.”
“But why? Everyone’s going!”
“Listen, Em. In my day, kids didn’t argue. We’d have gotten the belt for less.”
He hadn’t raised his voice, but the words sat in her throat like a stone. That night, she’d cried silently into her pillow while he grumbled next door.
“You’ve spoiled her. Little princess. All that money wasted on her. In my day—”
Emily clenched her fists. It was just the beginning. The nitpicking never stopped—her clothes, her appetite, even her opinions. He treated her like a servant in his own makeshift kingdom.
She snapped back to the present. “Mum, half this flat is legally mine. Victor’s name’s nowhere on the deeds.”
“You don’t get it. If we sell and split it just us, he’ll see it as betrayal. He thinks of you as his daughter.”
“Right. Let’s think. What if I sell my half to a stranger? Then he can share a kitchen with his ‘almost-daughter’s’ buyer. Betrayal or not?”
Gail fell silent, lips trembling. She was afraid of being alone.
“He’s put his soul into this place,” she whispered. “Don’t you feel that?”
“I feel that if I don’t stand up for myself now, no one will. And if I don’t, I’ll end up like you—stuck with some bloke leeching off me and my kids.”
She left. The spring air outside was fresh. Kids licked ice cream; heels clicked on pavement. Life moved on, as if no earthquake had just shaken that fifth-floor flat.
For a week, Emily didn’t call. Why speak to someone who just echoed another’s voice?
She focused on selling her share. The estate agent found a buyer—a divorced man looking for a temporary place. Polite, quiet. He didn’t send Gail into hysterics, which, given her flair for drama, was a miracle.
Later, the texts came: “Em… you’re not just selling a flat. You’re selling our family.”
Guilt gnawed at her. Was she wrong? But renting forever wasn’t an option.
She called her dad. They rarely spoke—he’d remarried, moved to Manchester—but she needed sense, not cultish devotion to Victor.
“Remember the flat you put in my name?”
“Course. What’s happened?”
“Mum wants Victor to get a cut. Says he’s ‘earned it.'”
A pause. Then a tired sigh.
“I didn’t fight your mum over that flat for no reason. I skipped child support, yes. But that flat was your start. Yours. Not hers. Not his. So you’d never be trapped.”
Emily blinked. She’d always thought half was all she’d ever owned.
“So… you think I’m right?”
“I think you’re grown. Do what’s smart—not spiteful.”
The call eased her mind, but another memory resurfaced: her college years. Victor insisted she pay her way, so she handed out flyers for pocket money. One day, she bought treats—yogurts, cheese, a bit of smoked sausage—and stored them in the fridge.
By morning, only scraps remained. Victor sat there, eating fried potatoes, drinking milk straight from the bottle.
“Did you take my food?”
“Ours, you mean. Family shares. You’ll understand when you have kids.”
After that, she ate out. But it didn’t end. Gail always needed “household contributions”—laundry powder (though Emily had bought a bulk pack weeks prior), utilities. Her wages vanished into Victor’s bottomless plate.
Now, things were different. Emily signed the papers, thanked the agent, and stepped outside, lighter.
She didn’t call Gail. Silence settled between them, easier than forced words.
Two weeks later, she treated herself—new bedsheets, a massage, decent trainers. Then she hunted for a studio near work. Somewhere no one scolded her for slamming cupboards or stole her food while calling her wasteful.
Six months passed. If not for Nan’s call, she might never have known.
“Love, how are you?”
“Alright, Nan. You?”
“Oh, calming your mum down. But otherwise fine.”
Emily froze. “What happened?”
“Long story… She sold the flat too.”
“What?”
“Couldn’t take it anymore. Victor… well, he’s not easy. They fought daily. You know how he is.”
Emily sat heavily. “She’s renting now?”
“Aye. They wanted a bigger place, kids someday. But no mortgage on her wages. Victor blew his share—new clothes, cafes. When the money ran out, he left. Found some other woman to mooch off. Your mum’s alone.”
Emily said nothing. No gloating—just a quiet click inside, as if a misaligned gear had finally shifted.
“She says you wrecked the family,” Nan added carefully. “Says if you’d just waited—”
“Waited? She didn’t wait when I ‘bothered’ her precious husband.”
Nan didn’t argue. She wanted peace, but she knew the truth.
They chatted a bit more—weather, health, her cousin Rob’s army enlistment—before the call dropped. Emily didn’t ring back.
The next day, she walked past estate agents’ windows, fingers brushing the keys in her pocket. Hers.
No one dictated how she sliced bread now. No one rummaged through her things. And as for her mother… Gail had made her choice.
Some people never learn—until the warmth they leech from runs cold.
