The air in the flat was thick with tension the moment Emilys mother, Margaret Whitmore, stepped inside. She perched on the edge of the rented sofa, her gaze sharp as a blade, dissecting every inch of the cramped one-bedroom flat where Emily and James had lived for the past three years.
When are you two finally buying a proper place? Margarets voice was clipped, accusatory.
Emily turned toward the window, the weight of the question pressing against her ribs. These conversations had long since ceased being merely unpleasantthey had become unbearable. Ever since she married James, her mother had been relentless. He wasnt good enough. No house, no proper savings, nothing. Why had she settled for such a man? And for three years, Margaret had demanded answerswhen would they buy? Why were they still renting? Wasnt it humiliating?
Emily clenched her jaw, forcing calm into her voice. Were looking, Mum. The right area, the right price, something move-in ready. We cant afford renovations. Understand?
Margaret scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. Of course. If youd found a proper man, youd be living in a penthouse, not scraping together pennies for some shabby little flat.
Emily stood abruptly, her pulse thudding. Ive got things to do, she muttered, grabbing her coat and escaping into the crisp London air.
She barely heard her mothers parting words.
Later, as she sipped water at the kitchen table, her phone rang. Jamess voice crackled with excitement. Emily! Ive found itthe perfect place! You need to see it now!
Her heart leapt. She scribbled the address, hailed a cab, and fidgeted all the way to the modest brick building in Croydon. James was waiting, his face alight. Come on, youll love it.
The flat was small but brighttwo bedrooms, fresh cream walls, laminate floors, windows that let in the afternoon sun. The previous owners were relocating, leaving behind furnitureclean, simple, welcoming.
Look, James said, guiding her through. Bedroom here, lounge there. Kitchens small but sunny. And its all we need.
Emily trailed her fingers along the walls. Already, she could picture their life heremorning tea at the little table, their books on the shelves, laughter in these rooms.
Well take it, she whispered.
The weeks blurred into paperwork, packing, moving. Finally, their first night in their own home. Emily stood in the lounge, breathing it in, until James wrapped his arms around her from behind.
Ours, he murmured.
She smiled, but the moment fractured the next day when Margaret arrived unannounced. She prowled through the flat like an inspector, her face twisting in disgust.
This is it? A shoebox? She sneered. I thought youd at least get a three-bed.
Emily stiffened. James stepped in, diplomatic. Its our first place, Margaret. Well save, maybe upgrade later.
Margaret turned at the door, venom in her voice. This flat is exactly like your husbanddull, useless, and pathetic.
The door slammed. Emily didnt move.
Time softened the edges. They filled the flat with plants, framed photos, little touches of home. But Margaret returned weeks later, her disapproval unchanged.
Every time I see this place, it depresses me, she announced over tea. Why did you buy this hovel? Because you married James, thats why. Proper women marry proper men, not
Emilys cup hit the table with a crack.
Enough! Her voice shook. You think a big house makes a happy life? Susan from your book club lives in a mansionand she cries herself to sleep because her husbands a brute! I love James. Id live under a bridge if it meant being with him. And if you cant accept that, dont bother coming back.
Margarets face drained of colour. She left without another word.
Silence settled. Then James emerged, pulling Emily into his arms as she wept into his shirt.
Im sorry, she choked out. For her. For everything.
He kissed her hair. Hush. Id live under that bridge with you, too.
She smiled through tears. They werent rich. No penthouse, no flashy car. But they had each other. And that was enough.
