**Cramped!**
Emily blinked at the message on her phone, disbelief freezing her fingers mid-scroll.
*”Hello, love. Sorry it’s taken me this long to reach out—there were reasons. Your mother and I split when you were three, and you wouldn’t remember me. I won’t pretend I’m full of remorse. I left for another woman, fell in love, and I don’t regret it. I gave your mum our flat and everything in it—walked out with just the clothes on my back. Paid child support, not much, but enough. I wasn’t cruel about it.*
*Now, the real reason I’m writing. Five years ago, I moved to Australia with my new family. My mum—your gran, Margaret—refused to come. She stayed in her tiny two-bed council flat. I covered her care, her bills, but she passed last month. Couldn’t fly back for the funeral. It’s a long way, expensive, even for us. We’re comfortable, but not made of money.*
*No other relatives left. No point in selling the place—it’s a fixer-upper in a rough area. So, we’re signing it over to you. Paperwork’s done, solicitor’s handling it. Gran left it to you in her will. His fees are paid; you’ll just owe the council tax and probate costs. One condition—look after her grave. Put up a headstone. Small price for a flat of your own.*
*This is yours alone. Your mum got her share—the flat, the support. Whatever she’s built since isn’t my business. Neither is your half-sister and her lot. This inheritance is yours.*
*Hope it helps. Be happy.—Dad (Victor Andrews)”*
Beneath it, the solicitor’s details. Emily’s hands trembled as she dialled. The confirmation came briskly: an appointment tomorrow afternoon. She wouldn’t tell her mum yet—not until she’d seen it, verified it wasn’t some twisted joke.
The thought of escape burned bright. Their cramped London flat—shared with her mum, her half-sister Lily, Lily’s deadbeat husband, and their two shrieking toddlers—was suffocating. Emily’s “room” was a corner of the living room, sectioned off by a battered wardrobe. The fridge raids, the mountain of unwashed dishes, the blaring telly—all of it, gone.
A flat of her own. Even if it was some dingy ex-council box, it was hers. She could soak in a scalding bath without a toddler banging on the door. Work in silence, host friends without the judgemental looks. Maybe even date—properly, not the fumbling, ashamed encounters in parks or borrowed cars.
The solicitor—a rumpled man in a tailored suit—verified everything. The flat was grim: peeling wallpaper, a kitchenette straight out of the ’70s. But Emily’s pulse raced. *Hers.* Keys in hand, he warned her to wait six months before moving in—legalities—but advised changing the locks.
Then came the hard part.
Mum’s face darkened as Emily explained.
“Why’s Victor involving you?” she snapped.
“Because I’m his daughter!”
“And I was his wife! Inheritance goes through me!”
Emily scoffed. “It’s Gran’s flat. She left it to me. Dad’s in Australia, not you. He owed you nothing after the divorce.”
“Owed? We’re *family*! What about Lily? The kids?”
Emily’s jaw clenched. “Lily chose to get pregnant at nineteen. Chose to move her bloke in. I’ve put my life on hold while she sprawled across *my* space. I’m twenty-four, Mum. I deserve a *door*.”
Mum’s voice turned venomous. “So you’ll leave us stewing here?”
“*Yes.*” The word tore out of her. “You’ll have more room without me. I’ll sign my share over—Lily can have it.”
“You selfish little—”
“Selfish?” Emily laughed, sharp as broken glass. “Lily’s got a husband. Kids. I’ve got *nothing*. Not even a bloody bed to bring a man back to. But *now*—” She exhaled, shaking. “Now I can breathe.”
Mum’s face crumpled. She jabbed the remote, flooding the room with the shrill chaos of a daytime talk show. Tears streaked her cheeks, but Emily turned away, yanking on headphones. The battle lines were drawn.
The flat was hers. And for the first time in years, so was her future.
