“What do you mean, give up my share?” Emily’s voice trembled. “Margaret, this is my husband’s inheritance!”
“*My* son’s inheritance,” her mother-in-law cut in, standing stiffly. “Not yours. You’re nobody here, just passing through. Oliver is mine, not yours.”
“Passing through?!” A hot wave rose from Emily’s chest to her throat. “We’ve been married for eight years!”
“Eight years is nothing,” Margaret scoffed. “My first marriage lasted twenty-three. And look how that ended. Don’t act like you’re some eternal wife.”
Emily stood frozen in the kitchen, disbelief washing over her. Half an hour ago, she’d been making a roast for the family, relieved Margaret had finally agreed to talk about dividing the house after her father-in-law’s passing. And now this.
“Margaret, let’s stay calm,” Emily steadied herself. “Roger left the house to Oliver. By law, half of it belongs to me as his wife.”
“Nothing belongs to you!” Margaret snapped. “My husband bought this house in 1995. I’ve lived here forty-eight years! Raised children, looked after grandchildren! And who are you? Showed up from some backwater town, charmed my boy, and now you want your cut?”
“I’m not from a backwater—I’m from Norwich,” Emily said quietly. “And I didn’t *charm* anyone. Oliver and I love each other.”
“Love.” Margaret snorted. “At your age? You’re thirty-eight, your clock’s ticking. What you want is a foothold in London, that’s all this is.”
The kitchen door swung open. Oliver walked in with grocery bags, tensing at the sight of their flushed faces.
“What’s going on?” He set the bags down.
“Your mother wants me to give up my share of the house,” Emily said, fighting to keep her voice level.
Oliver glanced between them. “Mum, we agreed we’d live together. Why bring this up now?”
“Darling,” Margaret’s tone turned sugary, “I’m thinking of your future. What if something happens? If you divorce, she’ll walk off with half.”
“Mum, stop. We’re not divorcing.”
“Famous last words,” she mocked. “I didn’t plan to divorce your father either, and look how that turned out. Life’s unpredictable.”
Emily stayed silent, watching. Oliver shifted awkwardly, like a schoolboy caught unprepared.
“Mum, why do this?” he finally said. “Emily’s family.”
“Family?” Margaret echoed. “Then where are the grandchildren? Eight years and nothing to show for it. Maybe she can’t even have children.”
Emily’s cheeks burned. It was her sorest spot. They’d tried for years—doctors, treatments—but nothing had worked.
“That’s private,” she ground out.
“*Private*.” Margaret shook her head. “My son marries a barren woman, and I’m supposed to stay quiet? I’m seventy! How much longer should I wait?”
“Mum, enough!” Oliver raised his voice. “That’s cruel.”
“The truth is cruel?” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “It’s not my fault she’s defective. Maybe she should divorce you and find some simpleton who won’t mind.”
Emily couldn’t take it.
“I’m leaving,” she said, untying her apron.
She stormed to the bedroom, shoving clothes into a bag, hands shaking. Was this really happening?
“Emily, wait!” Oliver followed her. “Ignore her—she’s just worried.”
“*Worried*? Oliver, she’s demanding I give up my rights! Like I’m some gold-digger!”
“She didn’t *demand*, she *asked*—”
“Are you deaf? She all but told me to get out!”
He sat on the bed, rubbing his temples. “She’s scared of ending up homeless. This house is her whole life.”
“And I’m throwing her out? It’s a four-bedroom house—we all fit!”
“I know. But she doesn’t trust legalities. Thinks if we split, she’ll lose everything.”
Emily paused, studying him. “Tell me honestly—whose side are you on?”
“Yours. You’re my wife.”
“Then why didn’t you defend me? Why let her say those things?”
Silence. No answer.
“I’m staying with Lucy for a few days,” she zipped the bag. “I need space.”
“Don’t go. We’ll sort this.”
“Sort *what*? How I surrender my rights? Or how I move out to please your mother?”
She grabbed her bag and marched out, bumping into Margaret in the hallway.
“Leaving?” Her mother-in-law smirked. “Good. Clear your head.”
“Margaret, understand this—I don’t want your house. I just need to know I have a home.”
“You’ve got one. In Norwich.”
“Strangers live there now.”
“Then find somewhere else.”
Emily stepped outside, tears streaming unnoticed. Eight years. Eight years of being a good wife, a dutiful daughter-in-law—cooking, cleaning, nursing Margaret through illness. And for what?
Lucy gasped when she opened the door. “You look awful! What happened?”
“Worse than awful.” Emily trudged in. “Can I stay tonight?”
Over tea, she spilled everything. Lucy listened, shaking her head.
“I warned you,” she said finally. “Remember how she kept jabbing about your age, the no-kids thing? This was always her plan—to make you seem like less of a wife.”
“But *why*? What did I do?”
“You took her son’s attention. She’s used to being his top priority.”
Lucy refilled their cups. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe you *should* give up your claim.”
“Lucy!”
“Hear me out. Oliver won’t stand up to her. He’s been under her thumb his whole life—you think that’ll change at forty-five?”
“But it’s not *fair*! I’m his legal wife!”
“Legally, yes. But in reality? If you push this, she’ll sabotage your marriage. Whisper in his ear daily—call you greedy, say you only married him for the house. How long before he cracks?”
Emily swallowed. Lucy was right. Oliver crumbled under pressure.
“So what—I surrender and live at her mercy?”
“Or negotiate. Give up the claim but get lifetime tenancy—or a payout if you divorce.”
“She’d never agree.”
“She will if it’s that or losing half the house. Your terms are still the better deal.”
Emily exhaled. “I’ll talk to a solicitor first.”
The next day, a bespectacled solicitor listened carefully.
“Technically,” she said, “your mother-in-law has a point. Inherited property isn’t marital assets. If Oliver inherited the house, it stays his.”
“But we’ve been together eight years!”
“Doesn’t matter. But you *can* claim compensation for any improvements made with joint funds—renovations, furniture.”
“What if I waive everything?”
“You’d get nothing. But you could secure guarantees—like lifetime residency.”
Emily thanked her and went home. Oliver rushed to hug her.
“Thank God! I’ve been worried sick!”
“Where’s your mother?”
“At her sister’s. We can talk properly.”
They sat on the sofa. He took her hand.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I was spineless.”
“Oliver—do you really want me to forfeit my share?”
A pause, then a nod.
“She’s terrified of being homeless, Em. She’s old.”
“And I’m not scared?”
“You’re strong. You’ll land on your feet.”
Her choice was clear: lose her marriage or swallow her pride.
“Fine,” she said. “But with conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, a guarantee I’ll never be evicted. Second, if we divorce, I’m compensated for renovations.”
Oliver brightened. “That’s fair! I’ll talk to Mum.”
“No. *I’ll* talk to her. And we do this properly—in writing.”
That evening, Margaret balked at the terms.
“Guarantees? We’re *family*—since when do we need *contracts*?”
“We do it properly,” Emily said firmly, “or I keep my share.”
“This is blackmail!”
“It’s justice.”
After hours of arguing, Margaret caved—the lure of sole ownership was too strong.
A week later, papers were signed. Emily waived her claim in exchange for lifetime residency and a divorce payout.
Signing felt like the most humiliating moment of her life. But family mattered more than pride.
Margaret turned sweet overnight, evenMargaret served tea with a smile the next morning, but Emily knew the truce was fragile, and the house would never feel like home again.
