“You want me to give up my share?” Emma’s voice trembled. “Margaret, that’s my husband’s inheritance!”
“That’s *my son’s* inheritance,” Margaret shot back, straightening up. “Not yours. You’re just passing through. James is *mine*, not yours.”
“Passing through?” Emma felt heat rising in her chest. “We’re married! Eight years together!”
“Eight years is nothing,” Margaret scoffed. “My first marriage lasted twenty-three. Then we divorced. So don’t act like you’re his forever wife.”
Emma stood in the kitchen, stunned. Half an hour ago, she’d been making roast for the family, relieved Margaret had finally agreed to discuss the house after her father-in-law’s passing. Now this.
“Margaret, let’s talk calmly,” Emma said, steadying herself. “Robert left the house to James. By law, half of it is mine as his wife.”
“Nothing is yours!” Margaret raised her voice. “My husband got this house in 1975. I’ve lived here forty-eight years! Raised children, babysat grandchildren! And who are you? Showed up from some nowhere town, charmed my son, and now you demand rights?”
“I’m *from Sheffield*,” Emma said quietly. “And I didn’t charm anyone. James and I love each other.”
“Love,” Margaret snorted. “At your age? You’re thirty-eight—clock’s ticking. You just want a London postcode, that’s all.”
Just then, James walked in with grocery bags. Seeing his wife and mother flushed with anger, he tensed.
“What’s going on?” he asked, setting the bags down.
“Your mother wants me to sign away my share of the house,” Emma said, fighting to keep her voice even.
James looked from his mother to his wife. “Mum, we agreed we’d all live together. Why bring this up now?”
“Darling,” Margaret’s tone turned saccharine, “I’m thinking of your future. What if things go wrong? You divorce, and she walks off with half the house.”
“Mum, stop. We’re not divorcing.”
“Oh, no one *plans* to divorce,” Margaret sneered. “Did I plan to split with your father? Life’s unpredictable.”
Emma stayed silent, watching. James floundered, shifting like a schoolboy called to the blackboard unprepared.
“Mum, why do this?” he finally said. “Emma’s family.”
“Family?” Margaret echoed. “Where are the kids? Eight years, nothing to show for it. Maybe she can’t even have them?”
Emma’s cheeks burned. It was her sorest spot. They’d tried for a baby—tests, meds, nothing worked.
“That’s private,” she hissed.
“*Private*,” Margaret shook her head. “Marries barren, and I’m supposed to stay quiet? I want grandchildren, James. I’m seventy—how long should I wait?”
“Mum, enough!” James raised his voice. “This is cruel.”
“Cruel? Truth hurts?” Margaret pulled out a handkerchief. “Not my fault she’s got issues. Maybe she should leave you for someone simpler.”
Emma snapped. “I’m leaving,” she said, untying her apron. “I can’t listen to this.”
She packed a bag in the bedroom, hands shaking. Was this really happening?
“Em, wait!” James followed. “Ignore her—she’s just worried.”
“Worried?” Emma turned. “She’s *demanding* I give up my home! Like I’m some gold-digger!”
“She’s not *demanding*, just asking—”
“*Asking*? You heard her! She’s pushing me out!”
James rubbed his temples. “She’s scared of homelessness. Lived here her whole life.”
“And I’m kicking her out? It’s a *four-bedroom* house! There’s space for everyone!”
“I know. But she doesn’t trust paperwork. Thinks if we split, she’ll lose everything.”
Emma stared at him. “James, tell me straight. 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 at Sophie’s,” Emma zipped her bag. “I need space.”
“Don’t go. Let’s talk this through.”
“Talk about what? How best to surrender my rights? Or how to vanish so Mummy’s happy?”
She breezed past Margaret in the hall.
“Off, then?” Margaret smirked. “Good. Sort your head out.”
“Margaret,” Emma stopped. “I don’t want your house. Just security—knowing I won’t be tossed out after one row.”
“You’ve got a home. In Sheffield.”
“Strangers live there now.”
“Find another.”
Emma stood on the landing, tears unnoticed. Eight years—cooking, cleaning, nursing Margaret through flu. For this?
Sophie gaped when she arrived. “Em, you look wrecked. What happened?”
“Worse,” Emma walked in. “Can I stay?”
“Of course. Spill it.”
Over tea, Emma told everything. Sophie shook her head.
“I *warned* you,” she said. “Remember her digs about your age, no kids? She was setting the stage—painting you as an inadequate wife.”
“But *why*?”
“You ‘stole’ her son. She’s the main woman in his life.” Sophie refilled their cups. “Look—maybe she’s right. Should you sign it away?”
“*Sophie!*”
“Hear me out. James won’t stand up to her. Forty-three years under her thumb—think that’ll change?”
“It’s unfair! I’m his *wife*! Half of everything’s legally mine!”
“Legally, yes. But push it, and you’ll lose both him *and* the house. Margaret will whisper daily: ‘She’s greedy, married you for the house. A loving wife wouldn’t claim her rights.’ How long ’til he cracks?”
Emma clenched her fists. Sophie was right. James folded under pressure.
“So what? Surrender and beg for crumbs?”
“Or sign—with conditions. Lifetime occupancy. Divorce payout.”
“Margaret would never agree.”
“Better than losing half. Think about it.”
Next day, Emma saw a solicitor—a sharp-eyed woman in glasses.
“Inheritance isn’t marital property,” she explained. “Even after eight years, the house stays his. But you *can* claim improvements—renovations, furnishings.”
“And if I waive everything?”
“You get nothing. But negotiate guarantees. Lifetime rights.”
At home, James hugged her. “Thank God you’re back! I was worried!”
“Where’s Margaret?”
“Next door. We can talk.”
On the sofa, he held her hand. “Em, I’m sorry. I failed you.”
“Just answer honestly. Do you want me to sign?”
After a pause, he nodded. “Mum’s terrified of being homeless.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re strong. You’ll land on your feet.”
No choice—lose him or keep scraps.
“Fine,” Emma said. “With conditions.”
“Like what?”
“One: I stay here forever. Two: If we divorce, you repay what I spent on this house.”
James brightened. “Fair. I’ll talk to Mum.”
“No. *I* will. And it’s done *properly*.”
That evening, Margaret gloated—until Emma listed terms.
“*Guarantees?*” she spat. “Family doesn’t need contracts!”
“Then I keep my share.”
“Blackmail!”
“Fairness.”
After hours of arguing, Margaret caved. She wanted that deed too badly.
A week later, papers were signed. Emma surrendered her claim but got lifetime rights and a divorce safety net.
Signing felt humiliating. But family trumped pride.
Margaret turned sweet overnight—even helped with dishes.
“See?” she smiled. “Now we’re all settled.”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Now I know my place.”
“Don’t be daft. You’re family—his beloved wife.”
“Family with no voice.”
“But a roof,” Margaret said. “That’s something.”
Emma nodded, scrubbing a plate. Yes, she’d bought peace by selling dignity. Her vote meant nothing 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 *had* to.
