The Warmest Neck to Lean On
“Stop right there! He frittered away my money, and now I owe him? Since when?”
“He’s your father!” her mother blurted out.
Emily arched her brows so high her forehead wrinkled like an accordion. Her mother stared back, arms crossed. The kitchen was stifling, thick with tension—just like their relationship.
“That man’s a stranger to me,” Emily replied calmly. “Father left me half the flat.”
“You know how it is,” Mary countered. “He’s lived here ten years. He’s put effort into this place too—helped where he could.”
Emily nearly snorted, biting back a bitter laugh.
“Helped? When, Mum? When he stood by the stove lecturing me on how to fry his potatoes while he couldn’t even scramble an egg?”
“Maybe not financially,” Mary mumbled. “But he’s family. You used to call him Dad.”
Emily’s gaze fixed on the fridge magnets—souvenirs from holidays with her father, back when they still traveled. The collection had stopped growing the moment Victor moved in.
“I called him that once—at fourteen—so you wouldn’t cry,” she admitted quietly. “And he waved it around like a trophy.”
A memory surfaced, unbidden: Emily burning with shame and rage after being denied a cinema trip with friends. Victor had declared girls “ought to stay home, not gad about.”
“But why? Everyone’s going!”
“When I was a lad,” he’d said, voice low and heavy, “children didn’t argue. We got the belt for less.”
That lump in her throat had lasted all night. She hadn’t cried, just buried her face in the pillow, listening to him grumble next door.
“You’ve spoiled her. Turned her into a princess. All that money wasted on her—no sense to it. In my day—”
Emily clenched her fists. That was just the beginning. Then came the nitpicking—her clothes, her appetite, her “pointless chatter.” Sometimes he ordered her around like a servant in his own little kingdom.
But she’d figured him out: he was powerless at work, lazy, barely scraping by. Home was where he played tyrant.
“Mum,” Emily snapped back to the present. “Half this flat’s mine. Legally. Remember? Victor’s not on the deeds.”
“You don’t get it. If we sell and split it two ways, Victor… he’ll take it as betrayal. He thinks of you as his own.”
“Oh, brilliant. Let’s think—what if I sell my half to a stranger? Then he’ll share a kitchen with some bloke who’s ‘almost Dad.’ Betrayal too, yeah?”
Mary fell silent, lips trembling. She was terrified 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 my ground now, no one will. And I’ll end up like you—stuck with some man riding my kids’ necks, crying about it later.”
She left. Couldn’t bear another second in that stranger’s flat, with her mother’s ghost of a voice.
Outside, spring was creeping in. A bus hissed at the stop. Kids licked ice cream. Heels clicked somewhere behind her. Life rolled on, as if no earthquake had just shaken that fifth-floor flat.
For a week, Emily didn’t call. Why talk to someone who only echoed another’s words?
She focused on the flat sale. A friend in estate agency listed her half—enough for a studio, maybe just a room, but better than renting under Victor’s roof.
A buyer appeared fast: a divorced man, polite, unfazed by Mary’s theatrics. That alone was a miracle.
Of course, her mother unloaded later—voice notes flooding Emily’s phone.
“You’re not selling a flat. You’re selling our family.”
The guilt gnawed. Was she wrong? Shared living was hell, but where else could she go? Squander rent while sitting on property?
She rang her father—rare, but grounding. He lived up north now, remarried, but still her lifeline when things got murky.
“You remember that flat you put in my name?”
“Course. What’s up?”
“Mum wants Victor to get a cut. Claims ‘he’s lived there ten years.’”
Silence. Then a tired sigh.
“Look, I didn’t haggle over that flat for nothing. No child support, but I wanted you set up—just you, not her. It was always meant to be yours. What she’s done since—that’s on her.”
New information. Emily had assumed half was all she’d ever get. Too late to fix now—just damage control.
“So you think I’m right?”
“You’re grown. Do what’s smart, not spiteful.”
The call lifted a weight. Then another memory ambushed her.
Back in sixth form, Victor insisted she “earn her keep.” Leafleting gigs paid pennies, but covered essentials. Once, she’d splurged on treats—yoghurts, cheese, a sliver of salami—stashed on her fridge shelf.
By morning, only crumbs remained. Victor sat at the table, chomping fried potatoes, swigging milk straight from the bottle.
“You took my food?”
“Since when’s it yours?” he scoffed. “We share in this family. You’ll get that when you’ve kids of your own. Till then, be grateful.”
She stopped stocking up. Ate out instead.
Then came Mary’s endless “household funds” demands.
“Washing powder’s low. We’re splitting it.”
But Emily had bought a bulk pack weeks ago—still nearly full in the cupboard. She caught her mother in these fibs often, but the excuses kept coming.
Each month, more of her wages vanished into that man’s belly—unemployed, yet never short on hot meals or opinions.
No more. Papers signed, keys handed over, Emily stepped outside with an odd lightness.
No calls to Mary. None returned. Silence settled like dust—easier than words no one heard anyway.
Two weeks later, she treated herself—new bedsheets, a massage, decent trainers. Modest, but hers.
Then she hunted for studios near work. Small, but private. No one scolding her for cupboard slams or stealing her food while calling her wasteful.
Six months passed. They might’ve never spoken again if not for Gran’s call.
“Love, how are you?”
“Alright. You?”
“Oh, calming your mother down. Otherwise fine.”
Emily froze. Strained as things were, she wished no harm.
“Something wrong?”
“Long story… You didn’t know? She sold the flat too.”
“Really?”
“Said she couldn’t take it. Victor… well, not bad, but difficult. Fights every day. You know he’s not one for compromise.”
Emily sank onto the bed. Words stuck like glue.
“So she’s renting?”
“Mm. They’d planned a two-bed—dreamed of kids. No mortgage for her, wages being what they are. Victor? Blew his share on clothes, cafés. Then when funds ran dry…”
Gran sighed.
“Found himself a cosier setup. Left her for another woman. Your mum? Well. She’s alone now.”
No gloating—just a quiet click inside, like a lock turning. Shame it took this long.
“She says you wrecked the family,” Gran added gently. “Claims if you’d just endured a bit longer…”
“Endured? She didn’t endure much when I annoyed her precious husband,” Emily snapped.
Gran didn’t argue. She knew the truth but longed for peace.
“Don’t hold it against her. She’s hurting. Might not say it, but she regrets it.”
They chatted—weather, health, her cousin Tom’s army call-up—then the line cut. Emily didn’t redial. Needed time to chew it over.
Next day, she wandered past greasy spoons, estate agents’ windows. Life chugged on, same as ever. Only now, her head was quiet.
A “For Sale” sign caught her eye. Instinctively, her hand dipped into her pocket, fingers curling around keys—hers now, heavy on a metal ring.
No one dictated how she sliced bread. No one rummaged through her things. As for her mother? She’d made her choices.
A warmer neck had always been out there—just not hers.
