“Found Himself a Warmer Nest”
“Hold on a second! He’s been frittering away my money, and now I owe him too? What’s that about?”
“He’s your father!” Mum blurted out.
Emily raised her eyebrows so high her forehead crinkled like a concertina. Her mother stared her down, arms crossed. The kitchen was stuffy and hot. Hard to breathe. Just like their relationship.
“That man’s a stranger to me. Dad left me half the flat,” Emily replied calmly.
“You’ve got to understand,” Gillian argued. “He’s lived here ten years. He’s put into this place too. Helped where he could.”
Emily almost scoffed, barely holding back a smirk.
“Helped? When, Mum? When he stood over me at the stove lecturing me on how to fry potatoes *his* way, even though he can’t even scramble an egg?”
“Well, maybe not financially,” her mother mumbled. “But he’s family. You called him ‘Dad’ yourself.”
Emily’s gaze drifted to the fridge magnets—old ones from family trips with her real dad. At some point, the collection stopped growing. When Victor moved in, holidays became a thing of the past.
“I said it *once* at fourteen, so you wouldn’t cry,” Emily admitted quietly. “And he waved it around like a bloody trophy.”
An unwelcome memory surfaced: Emily coming home humiliated and furious after being the only one barred from a cinema trip. Victor’s decree—”girls shouldn’t gallivant about.”
“But why? Everyone’s going!”
“In my day, kids didn’t backchat. We got the belt for less.”
He hadn’t raised his voice, but the lump in her throat lasted till bedtime. She didn’t cry. Just pressed her face into the pillow as he grumbled next door:
“You’ve spoiled her. Little princess. Money down the drain. In my time—”
Emily clenched her fists. That was just the start. Then came the nitpicking—her clothes, her appetite, her opinions. Sometimes he ordered her about like she was staff in *his* house.
But she’d cottoned on: he was powerless at work, half-arsing his job. At home, though? He could shout, slam tables, *pretend* he mattered.
“Mum,” Emily snapped back to the present. “Half this flat’s legally mine. Remember? Victor’s not on the deeds.”
“Em, you don’t get it. If we sell and split it two ways, Victor… he’d take it as betrayal. He *does* see you as his daughter.”
“Right. Let’s think. Ooh—what if I sell my half to a stranger who’ll share a kitchen with *almost-Dad*? Still betrayal?”
Gillian went quiet, exhaled, and shut her eyes. Her lips trembled. She was scared of being alone.
“He’s put his heart into this place,” she whispered. “Don’t you feel that?”
“I feel that if I don’t stand my ground now, no one will. And I *feel* that if I cave, I’ll end up like you—stuck with some bloke leeching off me and my kids.”
She left. Couldn’t stay in that stranger’s flat, beside the stranger her mother had become.
Outside, spring was waking. A bus hissed at the stop. Kids licked ice creams. High heels clicked behind her. Life rolled on, as if no earthquake had just hit that fifth-floor flat.
After that row, Emily didn’t call for a week. Why talk to someone who just parrots another’s voice?
She focused. Contacted a mate in estate agency. The flat was co-owned; she’d sell her share to buy a studio—*anything* to stop renting and living near Mum and Victor.
A buyer emerged fast: a divorced bloke needing temporary digs. Polite, quiet. Didn’t send Gillian spiralling—a miracle, given her flair for drama.
Of course, Mum unloaded later. Voice notes flooded Emily’s phone:
“Em… you’re not just selling a flat. You’re selling *family*.”
Emily listened, silent, as the guilt gnawed. Was she wrong? Housemates weren’t ideal—but where else could she go? Keep renting while owning property?
She rang her dad. They barely spoke—he’d remarried, moved cities—but when things got unbearable, she called. Not to whinge. Just to hear sanity.
“Hey, Dad. Remember the flat you signed over to me and Mum?”
“’Course. What’s up?”
“Mum wants her new man to get a cut from the sale. Says he’s ‘earned it’ living there ten years.”
Silence. Then a tired sigh.
“Listen, I didn’t split that flat lightly. I skipped child support, yeah, but that flat was your *future*. Meant to be fully yours one day. What your mum’s done with her half—that’s on her.”
Emily froze. She’d always thought half was all she’d ever get. *Too late for that now. Damage control.*
“So… you think I’m right?”
“I think you’re grown. Do what you need—just do it smart, not spiteful.”
The call lifted a weight. Then another memory ambushed her.
Back in college, when Mum and Victor insisted she “pull her weight,” Emily took a flyering gig. Pennies, but it covered basics. One payday, she treated herself: yoghurts, cheese, a bit of salami. Stashed it in the fridge.
Next morning? One yoghurt left. Salami ends. Victor sat at the table, scoffing fried potatoes, swigging milk straight from the bottle.
“Did you take my food?”
“*Your* food?” He sneered. “We’re family. You’ll get it when you have kids. Till then, share and be grateful.”
After that, she ate out.
But it wasn’t just food. Mum kept hitting her up for “household funds”:
“Washing powder’s low. We’ll split it.”
*Liar.* Emily had bought a bulk pack weeks ago. Still in the bathroom, nearly full.
Every month, her wages vanished into Victor’s belly—unemployed, always fed, always dictating *her* life.
Not anymore. Paperwork signed, keys handed over, Emily stepped outside with hollow relief.
She didn’t call Mum. Mum didn’t call either. Silence settled like dust. Easier that way.
Two weeks later, she splurged: new bedsheets, a massage, decent trainers. Modest but *hers*. Then she flat-hunted—somewhere small, near work. Somewhere no one would scold her for slamming cupboards or pinch her food while scolding her *spending*.
Six months passed. If not for Gran, she’d not have known:
“Love, your mum’s sold her half too. Said she couldn’t take it—rows with Victor every day. You know how he is.”
Emily sat heavy on the bed. Words stuck like gum.
“She’s renting now?”
“Aye. They’d planned for kids, a two-bed. But his spending… cafes, new gear. Money ran out, and—”
Gran sighed. “He left. Found himself a warmer nest. Your mum’s alone.”
No gloating. Just quiet *closure*. Shame he hadn’t left sooner.
“She says *you* broke the family,” Gran added gently. “Says if you’d just waited—”
“*Waited*? She didn’t ‘wait’ when I annoyed *him*.”
Gran didn’t argue. Knew the score but wanted peace.
Next day, Emily walked past estate agents’ windows. A flat photo caught her eye. Her hand dipped into her pocket, fingers curling around keys—*heavy, metal, hers*.
No one dictated her bread-slicing now. No one rifled through her things. And Mum? She’d made her choice.
