“What do you mean, ‘sign over my share’?” Emily’s voice trembled. “Margaret, that’s my husband’s inheritance!”
“My son’s inheritance,” Margaret corrected, standing tall. “Not yours. You’re just passing through. William is mine, not yours.”
“Passing through?” Emily felt heat rise from her chest to her throat. “We’re husband and wife! Eight years together!”
“Eight years is nothing,” Margaret scoffed. “My first marriage lasted twenty-three. Then we divorced. Don’t act like you’re his forever wife.”
Emily stood in the kitchen, stunned. Half an hour ago, she’d been making Sunday roast, relieved Margaret had finally agreed to discuss the house after her father-in-law’s death. Now this.
“Margaret, let’s talk calmly,” Emily said, steadying herself. “Robert left the house to William. By law, half of it is mine as his wife.”
“Nothing is yours!” Margaret raised her voice. “My husband bought this house in ‘75. I’ve lived here forty-eight years! Raised children, looked after grandchildren! And who are you? Turned up from your little town, charmed William, and now you’re making demands!”
“I’m not from some little town—I’m from Bath,” Emily said quietly. “And I didn’t ‘charm’ anyone. We love each other.”
“Love,” Margaret snorted. “At your age, what’s love? You’re thirty-eight—clock’s ticking. You just want a London postcode, that’s all.”
Just then, William walked in with grocery bags. Seeing his wife and mother red-faced, he froze.
“What’s going on?”
“Your mother wants me to give up my share of the house,” Emily said evenly.
William looked between them. “Mum, we agreed we’d all live together. Why bring this up now?”
“Darling,” Margaret’s tone turned sweet, “I’m thinking of your future. What if things go wrong? She’ll take half the house.”
“Mum, stop. We’re not getting divorced.”
“No one plans to,” Margaret mocked. “But life’s unpredictable.”
Emily stayed silent as William shifted uncomfortably.
“Mum, why do this?” he finally said. “Emily’s family.”
“Family?” Margaret repeated. “Then where are the kids? Eight years—nothing to show for it. Maybe she can’t have them?”
Emily’s cheeks burned. They’d tried for years—doctors, treatments—but no luck.
“That’s private,” she hissed.
“Private?” Margaret shook her head. “My son marries a barren woman, and I should stay quiet? You think I have forever to wait?”
“Mum, enough!” William snapped. “That’s cruel.”
“Truth hurts?” Margaret pulled out a handkerchief. “Maybe she ought to leave you for someone less complicated.”
Emily untied her apron. “I’m going.”
She packed a bag in the bedroom, hands shaking.
“Em, stop!” William pleaded. “She’s just worried.”
“Worried? She’s kicking me out!”
“She’s scared of losing her home.”
“And I’m throwing her out? It’s a four-bed house!”
William rubbed his temples. “She doesn’t trust legal things.”
Emily faced him. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. You’re my wife.”
“Then why didn’t you defend me?”
Silence.
“I’ll stay with Charlotte for a few days,” she said, zipping her bag.
In the hallway, Margaret smirked. “Leaving? Smart. Sort your head out.”
“Margaret, understand this—I’m not after your house. I just need to know I won’t be tossed out.”
“You’ve got a home. In Bath.”
“Strangers live there now.”
“Find somewhere else, then.”
On Charlotte’s doorstep, her friend gasped. “Bloody hell, you look wrecked.”
“Worse,” Emily said. “Can I stay?”
Over tea, she explained everything.
“I warned you,” Charlotte sighed. “Her digs about your age, the kids—she was laying groundwork.”
“Why?”
“You took her son’s attention. Now she wants you gone.”
Charlotte refilled their cups. “Might she have a point? What if you signed it over?”
“What?”
“Hear me out. William won’t stand up to her. If you fight, you’ll lose him *and* the house.”
Emily slumped.
“Get a solicitor,” Charlotte urged. “Make conditions.”
The next day, a solicitor confirmed: inheritance wasn’t marital property. Only home improvements could be claimed.
At home, William hugged her. “Thank God you’re back! I’m sorry.”
“Is Margaret here?”
“At bridge club. We can talk.”
He held her hands. “Will you do it?”
“On conditions: I live here forever, and if we divorce, I get compensation.”
Margaret agreed—after hours of arguing.
Weeks later, papers were signed. Humiliating, but Emily had a home.
That night, Margaret even helped with dishes.
“See? All sorted,” she said.
Emily nodded, scrubbing a plate. She’d bought peace—with her pride.
Now she knew: her voice didn’t matter here.
But she had a home. And a husband who loved her—as much as his mother allowed.
It would have to be enough. It would *have* to.
