**Tight Squeeze!**
Emily stared at her phone in disbelief as she read the message:
*”Hello, love! Sorry I’m only reaching out now—there were reasons. Your mum and I split when you were three, so you won’t remember me. I won’t pretend I’m full of regret or grovelling—I left for another woman, loved her, and don’t think I did wrong by it. I left your mum the flat we lived in, walked out with just the clothes on my back. Paid child support, even if it wasn’t much. All in all, I reckon I wasn’t a complete rotter.*
*Now, down to brass tacks. Five years back, my new family and I moved to Australia. My mum—your Nan, Margaret—refused to come. Lived in her little two-bed until she passed recently. I covered her care, but flying back for the funeral was a no-go—too pricey, even if we’re comfortable.*
*No other relatives left, so selling her poky flat wouldn’t be worth the hassle. We decided it’s yours instead. Sorted the paperwork, sent it to a solicitor. Nan left it to you in her will. You’ll need to cover the fees, mind, and tend her grave—small price for a whole flat, eh?*
*This is just for you. Your mum got the old flat, child support… and whatever bloke she’s with now isn’t my business. So no, this isn’t a family hand-me-down. It’s yours.*
*Be happy, love. —Dad (Victor Blackwood)”*
Beneath were the solicitor’s details. Emily caved and rang straight away. They confirmed the details and booked her in for the next afternoon. She bit her tongue—no point telling Mum yet. Best to see the place first, get the lay of the land.
At home, the flat was bursting at the seams. Mum’s two-bed housed Emily, her half-sister Lucy (whose dad was anyone’s guess), Lucy’s layabout husband, and their two rowdy toddlers. Emily and Mum shared the box room; the other four crammed into the larger one. If this flat business panned out… *Bliss.* She’d even saved a bit for a mortgage deposit—enough for a shoebox studio if she scrimped. But fate had handed her keys to freedom instead!
Dad had sent the floorplan—a grotty little ex-council two-bed, “tired” being the charitable word. No matter. *Hers.* No blaring telly, no toddlers storming her corner. Long baths, wandering about in just a towel. No more “mysterious” fridge raids or Everest-sized dish piles. Evenings with coffee and her laptop, designing interiors (which, incidentally, sold surprisingly well). And—she flushed—*maybe even a proper love life.* The small room would be hers strictly; the kitchen, her office; the larger one for guests. She caught herself grinning. *First, check it’s not a scam.*
Next day, the solicitor—a rumpled but poshly dressed bloke—confirmed it all. The flat was… well, *lived-in*, but Emily wasn’t fussed. “Keys in six months,” he said, “but swap the locks now. Let the neighbours see there’s a new boss.”
Then came *the* chat with Mum.
“Why’s Victor dealing with *you*?” Mum scowled.
“Er, because I’m his *daughter*?”
“And I was his *wife*. Shouldn’t *I* decide?”
“Mum, it’s *Nan’s* flat. Dad can’t fly back, so he’s handing it to me.”
“Handing? Since when is it *yours* alone?”
Emily sputtered. “It’s *my inheritance*!”
“And what about me? Lucy and the kids? Are we strangers?”
“You’re not. But Nan didn’t know them! Dad left *you* the flat, paid child support. Why should he fund Lucy’s lot?”
“You’re heartless! They’re squeezed into one room!”
“By *choice*! Lucy shacked up with a bloke who can’t afford rent. Meanwhile, I’ve put *my* life on hold—”
“Oh, *please*. What savings? You’d never get a mortgage.”
“Fine, maybe not. But now? I’m *out* of this madhouse!”
Mum’s voice turned small. “So you’d leave us here?”
“Yes! I’ll sign my share over to you or Lucy and *live*.”
“I’d hoped… we could swap both flats for one big one. Room for everyone.”
“With *our* flats? Dream on. And even then, Lucy’d pop out another kid, and we’re back to square one!”
“Then take *me* with you. Two rooms—one each!”
“They’re *adjoining*, Mum. Same chaos, different postcode. Lucy gets this place, and I’m stuck with your telly blaring? *No.*”
“But Lucy’s got a family! You’re alone!”
“*Exactly!*” Emily nearly yelled. “Lucy lucked out—pretty, got a husband willing to live in a cupboard. Me? I’ve scraped by with flings because no one’s lining up to marry *this* face. But now? A flat of my own? *Game changer.*”
Mum sneered. “Couldn’t land a bloke with his *own* place?”
“Rich ones want supermodels or heiresses. I’m neither. But a flat? *That’ll* pull a decent chap. I’m not ancient—I want a life too!”
Emily slammed her headphones on, turned her back. Mum retaliated by cranking up her least favourite talk show—*pointedly*. The screen glared, sound booming, as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
