Arriving at her countryside plot, Emily saw her mother-in-law and husband showing it to a buyer, convinced she wouldnt find out.
Emily had decided to visit her cottage that weekend to check on the place after winter. The October Saturday was crisp and sunny, though the air carried a chill. She woke early, sipped her coffee, packed a bag with tools and a thermos of tea. The plot was forty minutes from London, nestled in the quaint village of Oakwood. Emily had bought the land five years ago, before marriage, with savings from her years as a software developer. Back then, prices were reasonable, and shed managed to secure a modest half-acre with a charming little garden shed. The deeds were in her name, the documents safely stored away.
Over the years, Emily had transformed the plotplanting apple and cherry trees, cultivating a vegetable patch, repairing the fence, and painting the shed. Summers were spent there every weekend, digging in the soil, escaping the city bustle. Her husband, Paul, rarely joined. He claimed gardens bored him, complained about mosquitoes, preferred staying in town for football and pub nights. Emily never pushed. The plot was her sanctuary, a place to be alone with her thoughts.
Her last visit had been in late August. Then work swallowed herproject deadlines, endless meetingsuntil finally, this free October day arrived. She wanted to check the windows, ensure the roof hadnt leaked, and clear fallen leaves before winter set in.
Emily turned on the radio and drove off. The countryside rolled pastgolden fields, sleepy hamlets, trees aflame with autumn. She loved this season: the quiet, the scent of woodsmoke, the crunch of leaves underfoot.
As she neared the gate, an unfamiliar cara sleek grey Range Roverwas parked outside. Emily frowned. Who on earth? The neighbours drove ancient hatchbacks, and a car like this didnt belong in Oakwood. She slowed, stepped out, and approached.
Through the gate, she spotted Paul and his mother, Margaret, leading a suited stranger around the garden. Emily froze. Paul had claimed he was helping a mate with renovations. And Margaret? Shed *never* visited, always moaning about her arthritis. Yet there they were, strolling her land with a stranger who scribbled notes, eyeing the trees, the fence, the shed.
Margaret was in full estate-agent mode: *”Plenty of space to buildquiet neighbours, woods nearby, the river just a mile off. Electricitys connected, well waters pure, no issues with foundations.”*
Emilys fists clenched. Her *mother-in-law* was pitching *her* propertyland shed never set foot on before!
Paul chimed in: *”Paperworks straightforward, no legal hiccups. Price is negotiable, but fair.”*
Blood roared in Emilys ears. They were *selling* her plot. Behind her back. Without her consent.
Six months ago, Paul had floated the idea*”We could fetch a tidy sum, upgrade to a two-bed flat.”* Shed refused. The plot meant too much. Hed shrugged, dropped it. Or so she thought. Turns out, hed just gone covert.
Emily shoved the gate open. The hinge screeched. Three heads whipped around.
Paul paled. Margaret gaped. The stranger blinked.
*”The deeds are in my name,”* Emily said coldly. *”No sale is happening.”*
The man stammered an apology, brushed past her, and fled. The Range Rover kicked up gravel as it sped off.
Paul stammered: *”Em, its not what you think”*
*”You brought a buyer. Discussed *my* land. Without me.”*
Margaret huffed: *”Darling, we *meant* well. You barely use this place! Why cling to it?”*
*”Because its *mine*,”* Emily snapped.
*”Selfish!”* Margaret spat. *”Pauls your *husband*! His opinion *matters*!”*
*”It did. I said *no* six months ago. That shouldve been the end of it.”*
Paul groaned: *”Were *family*! Everything should be shared!”*
*”Shared? Or *stolen*?”*
The argument spiralledMargaret shrieking about *”squashing grandchildren in a one-bed flat,”* Paul pleading they *”needed the money.”* Emily stood firm. *”If you want a bigger place, earn it. Dont sell *my* life out from under me.”*
Finally, she pointed to the gate. *”Both of you. *Leave.*”*
Margaret spluttered about *”ungrateful daughters-in-law,”* but Paul, shamefaced, tugged her away.
Alone, Emily sank onto the shed step, tea trembling in her hands. The betrayal stungnot just Pauls deceit, but the sheer *audacity* of it.
Three months later, the divorce was final. The flat was rented; the plot remained hers. Spring came. Emily returned, digging her hands into the soil, the scent of earth filling her lungs.
Neighbour Martha brought over seedlings and scones. *”Men rush, dont they?”* she mused. *”Want everything *now*.”*
Emily smiled. *”They do.”*
*”Ah well. Youre young. Youll find better.”* Martha patted her arm. *”Just keep the land. Thats *real* wealth.”*
*”Oh, I will,”* Emily murmured, watching the sunset paint the sky.
The gate clicked shut behind her. The plot was hersher fortress, her freedom. And *that* was worth more than any flat, any promise, any lie.
