**Diary Entry**
*Monday, 15th June*
“Can I get a list of services?” Lillian snapped, realising her so-called “family discounts” had turned into debts and schemes.
“Mind if I ask you something?” She set a bowl of beef stew in front of her mother-in-law and gave her a sharp looktoo sharp, perhaps. “Why do you come over every single day? Did we open a free canteen, or is this the *Humiliate the Daughter-in-Law* club?”
Margaret Whitmore, a sixty-four-year-old woman with a permanently baffled expression, as if the world had personally offended her, gave Lillian a withering stare. The wrinkles around her lips twisted into a spiteful bow.
“First of all,” she began, ignoring the stew, “Im his mother. Second, if you could cook properly, I wouldnt *need* to come. And third” she leaned in, “I want to make sure youre not poisoning my son.”
Oliver, Lillians thirty-eight-year-old husband, sat between them like a slice of cheese in a sandwichmelting, trying to slide off unnoticed.
“Mum, come on, not again,” he mumbled, poking at his bread roll. “The stews fine.”
“Oh, *fine*!” Margaret mocked. “Everythings *fine* with you two! Her miserable teaching job barely pays pennies, her clothes are shabby, and this stewdid you boil it in ditchwater?”
Lillian exhaled. She always exhaled when biting her tongue. But today, it didnt help.
“Well, dont eat it, then. No ones forcing you. The doors right there, Margaret. Or did you come to remind me that Olivers ex-wife made thicker stew and kept him happier?”
Oliver jerked like someone had plugged an electric hob under his chair.
“Lil, dont start”
“Oh, here we go!” Margaret scoffed. “Queen of the saucepan, are we? Meanwhile, *Emily* worked, kept the house spotless, and never embarrassed her husband!”
*Emily*. The legendary ex-wife. Left on her own termsgracefully, with dignity. Yet Margaret canonised her weekly.
“Why dont you go eat *her* stew, then, if youre such a fan?” Lillian shot back, feeling something boil inside herjust like that damned stew.
Oliver flushed but, predictably, only muttered, “Alright, enough. Mum, lets drop the Emily talk.”
Margaret stood, adjusted her threadbare cardigan, and said sweetly, “If you had any real moneynot just your teachers pittanceyoud sing a different tune. Sitting here, useless, no savings. And *Im* the one worrying about your future! Someone has to save you from yourselves!”
“Youre *saving* us?” Lillian braced her hands on the table. “Can I see the service menu? Mustve missed it.”
“Mums right,” Oliver cut in suddenly. “Lil, you know how tough things are. Mortgages, bills… Shes only trying to help.”
Lillian stared at him. Really stared. And in that moment, it hit hernothing would change. Ever.
That evening, after Margaret finally left (slamming the door so hard a jar of beans toppled off the shelf), Lillian sat at the kitchen table, replaying one question: *What the hell am I still doing here?*
Her phone buzzed. A text: *”Lillian Hart, urgentcall back. Solicitor. Re: your aunt Dorothys estate.”*
Aunt Dorothy honestly, Lillian barely remembered her. Lived in York. Eccentric, harmless, the sort who collected ceramic frogs.
She called back. A dry, professional voice: “Miss Hart? This is Mr. Barrett, the solicitor handling your aunts will. Shes left you her entire estateincluding a savings account. £150,000. Well need you to come in.”
Lillian sat down. Stood up. Sat again.
“One hundred and fifty *thousand*?”
“Correct. In pounds.”
She stared at the wall. Then Oliver shuffled in, grinning, a Tesco bag in hand.
“Hey, Mum rangsaid maybe you should go on maternity leave. No point slaving at school for peanuts”
“Uh-huh,” Lillian said, looking straight through him.
News spread faster than flu.
Next morning, Margaret was at the door, smug, clutching a handbag.
“Darling!” she trilled, voice syrupy enough to rot teeth. “Congratulations! I *knew* you were our lucky charm! Even the stews improved! Now, about those funds we should discuss investments. Make that money *work*.”
“What funds?” Lillian deadpanned.
Margaret fluttered her hands. “Oh, dont be modest! Oliver told me. Well open an account in *my* namesafer that way. You never know”
“Right,” Lillian said, squeezing her mug till her knuckles whitened. “Never know.”
Oliver, fiddling with a broken remote, pretended not to hear.
Margaret paced like a warehouse manager. “Well buy Oliver a flatpoor lad struggles. A car, too. And my nephews starting a garagebrilliant opportunity!”
Lillian stood slowly. “Margaret, you spent five years telling me Im worthless. Now youre giving financial advice?”
Margaret stiffened. “Because now youre our *hope*!”
“Too late. That ships sailed.”
That night, her friend Hannah brought two bottles of cheap prosecco. “To freedom. No mother-in-law. No husband. No bloody garage.”
Oliver kept calling. Texting. Thencourt papers. Margaret was contesting the will, claiming Aunt Dorothy was “mentally unfit.”
The hearing was a farce. Margaret wailed, “Shes unstable! Violent! The poor aunt was *coerced*!”
The judge dismissed it. The solicitor proved Oliver had taken out a loan in Lillians namecaught on CCTV.
Afterward, Oliver cornered her. “Lil, mistakes happen! Mum overreactedso did you! Were *family*!”
Lillian looked at him*really* looked. “No. I was a project. *Try to Earn Their Love*. Well, it failed.”
She walked away.
The divorce finalized. The will stood. The loan? Charged to Oliver.
Margaret tried to reconcile later. *”Dont be bitter, dear Oliver cant even peel potatoes without you!”*
Lillian blocked her. Everyone.
Now? A tiny flathers. A stray kitten. A new job. And money in *her* account.
For the first time in years, she woke up free.
And that? Worth more than £150,000.
