**Whom to Trust If Not Your Own Mother**
Emily remembered her happy childhood, though at twenty-five, she had already tasted life’s joys, sorrows, and betrayals.
When the young and dashing Lieutenant William, fresh from Sandhurst, proposed to his sweetheart Charlotte, she could hardly believe it. They had dated for over two years, though his studies left little time for visits. Cadets were rarely granted leave.
“Charlie, let’s hurry to the registry office,” William urged, grinning. “We’ll marry, then I’ll settle at my new post. You’ll join me later—I’ll be waiting.”
Charlotte agreed eagerly. She longed to escape her home, her drunken, quarrelsome father, and a mother who barely cared.
Her mother defended her father when he was sober, fussing over him with meals, but soon the cycle of shouting and smashed plates would start again. No one paid Charlotte much mind—so long as she was fed and clothed. Her mother wrestled his wages from him before he drank them away, but there was no warmth in that house.
“If I ever have a daughter,” Charlotte thought bitterly, “I’ll love her properly. No shouting, no chaos. I’ll marry a decent man—not like my father.”
She joined William in a remote garrison town in Yorkshire. The flat was small, half-furnished with military-issued pieces, the rest bought with his meagre pay.
“Darling, I’m so happy,” she sighed, wrapping her arms around him. “Just us now. No one else.”
A year later, their daughter Emma was born. William was often away on exercises, leaving Charlotte to manage alone. He’d return late, long after Emma was asleep, his heart aching to see her.
Time passed. Emma grew; William was transferred—first to a modest county town, then another. Emma bounced between schools as they moved, until one evening, William returned with news.
“Pack up. We’re off to London—likely for good.”
“Finally,” Charlotte muttered. “Tired of trailing after the army. Other families stay put.”
“Charlie, you married a soldier,” he reminded her, frowning. “You’ve got a home, a car, security. What more do you want?”
But Charlotte, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s temper. As Emma grew, she clung to her father, their bond unshaken. Charlotte barely noticed.
Their new flat in central London was spacious—three bedrooms, a far cry from their old quarters. Emma adored the balcony, the cityscape sprawling below.
She attended a good school. William served; Charlotte worked. But peace was short-lived. Emma often heard her mother’s sharp tongue lashing out, William retreating to the balcony with his paper, weathering the storm.
Two years later, they divorced. Emma stayed with Charlotte; William moved across the city, leaving them the flat.
“Visit whenever you like,” he said, pressing a slip of paper into her hand—his new address. She hid it carefully.
Emma spent holidays with him, strolling through parks, catching films, laughing over ice cream. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s bitterness festered. Emma learned to push back, their relationship brittle as glass.
When university loomed, Emma chose a school far away—anywhere but home. She thrived in student halls, relieved by the distance.
“I’ll visit Mum over break,” she told herself.
But her return brought only disappointment. Charlotte now shared the flat with Daniel, a man barely seven years her senior. He was always drunk—something foreign to Emma, raised in a teetotal home.
“Mum, how can you stand this?” she finally snapped. “He’s always drinking, shouting—”
“Not your business,” Charlotte hissed. “Daniel’s had a hard life. Don’t like it? Go to your father.”
Emma left the next morning—after Daniel had cornered her in her room. Only Charlotte’s return stopped him. She fled to William’s, vowing never to return while Daniel lived there.
Years passed. On her final university break, Emma visited William—now living with Anna, a kind woman who welcomed her warmly. Then, disaster struck: a car hit her outside his flat.
Hospitalised with a broken leg, she called Charlotte.
“Mum, I’m in hospital.”
Charlotte arrived—with a notary.
“Sign these, love,” she urged. “Your father never sorted your future. I won’t leave you homeless. This flat will be yours—I promise.”
Emma signed, trusting blindly.
After graduation, she settled in London, working hard, dreaming of her own place. One day, she rang Charlotte.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Surviving. Split with Daniel—had enough of his drinking.”
“Thank God,” Emma breathed.
“Changed my flat too,” Charlotte added. “Sold the old one, bought a two-bed. You’ll inherit it.”
But a call to their old neighbour, Sarah, revealed the truth.
“Emma, didn’t you know? Your mum transferred the flat to Daniel. She sold his old place—they blew the money. You’ve got nothing.”
Emma’s heart cracked. That document she’d signed in hospital? A trick. Charlotte had used her, leaving her with no inheritance.
She confronted her mother, finding her half-drunk.
“Mum, why did you cut me out?”
Charlotte scoffed. “Earn your own way. Why’re you here? Stay for a drink.”
Disgusted, Emma left. William, ever steady, reassured her.
“We’ll help you buy a place, love. Just wait. And—anyone special in your life?”
“Yes, Dad. James. He’s like you—that’s how I know I’ve chosen right.”
She cut ties with Charlotte, who shrugged it off.
“You don’t understand life, girl. Mine’s exciting. What have you got?”
Emma would never understand her mother’s idea of “exciting”—a slow, shameful decline.
