**”Can I get a list of services?”** Lillian demanded, her voice sharp with defiance as she realized her so-called *family discounts* had turned into debts and schemes.
“Mind if I ask you something?” Lillian plunked a bowl of stew in front of her mother-in-law and fixed her with a starecold, deliberate, bordering on dangerous. “Why do you come here every single day? Did we open a free canteen or a Humiliate the Daughter-in-Law club?”
Margaret Whitmore, a sixty-four-year-old woman with a face permanently twisted in disapprovalas if the world had personally offended hermeasured Lillian with a glare. The wrinkles around her lips curled into a spiteful little bow.
“First of all,” she began, ignoring the stew, “Im his mother. Second, if you could cook properly, I wouldnt *have* to come. And third” She leaned in close enough for Lillian to smell her stale perfume. “I need to make sure youre not poisoning my son.”
Edward, Lillians thirty-eight-year-old husband, sat between them like cheese in a sandwichthe kind thats already melting, desperate to slide off unnoticed.
“Mum, come on,” he muttered, picking at his bread. “The stews fine.”
“Oh, *fine*!” she mocked. “Everythings *fine* with you two! Her pathetic wages from that school, her awful clothes, this *stew*did you boil old shoe leather in it?”
Lillian exhaled. She always exhaled when she needed to hold back. But today, it didnt help.
“Then dont eat it. The doors right there, Margaret. Or did you come back to remind me how much better Edwards ex-wife was? Thicker stew, happier husband?”
Edward flinched like someone had just plugged in an electric chair beneath him.
“Lil, dont start”
“Oh, here we go!” Margaret snapped. “Look at you, *Queen of the Saucepan*! Meanwhile, Emily worked, kept the house spotless, and never embarrassed her husband!”
*Emily.* The legendary ex. The saintly, perfect Emily whod left of her own accordgracefully, with dignity. Yet Margaret canonized her weekly.
“So why dont you go eat *her* stew then, since youre such a fan?” Lillian spat, feeling the heat rise in her chest like the bubbling pot on the stove.
Edward flushed but, predictably, only said, “Alright, enough. Mum, leave Emily out of it.”
Margaret stood, adjusted her moth-eaten cardigan, and said sweetly, “If you had any moneynot those measly teacher wagesyoud sing a different tune. Sitting here, useless, while I run around saving you from your mistakes!”
“Youre *saving* us?” Lillian pressed her palms into the table. “Can I get a list of services? Mustve missed the memo.”
“Mums right,” Edward cut in unexpectedly. “Lil, you know how tight things are. Mortgages, bills Shes just trying to help.”
Lillian said nothing. Just stared at him. And in that moment, it hit hernothing would ever change.
That evening, after Margaret finally left (slamming the door so hard a jar of beans toppled from the shelf), Lillian sat at the kitchen table, turning one question over in her head: *What am I even doing here?*
Her phone buzzed. A text: *”Lillian Whitmore, urgent call. Notary. Re: your aunt Dorothys estate.”*
*Aunt Dorothy?* Honestly, Lillian barely remembered her. Lived in York. Eccentric. Harmless, but oddthe kind of old woman who hoarded newspapers but never hurt a fly.
She called back. The voice on the line was crisp, professional.
“Lillian Whitmore? Notary Davies here. Regarding your aunt Dorothys will. Shes left you her entire estateincluding a bank deposit. Three hundred thousand pounds. Well need you to come in.”
Lillian sat. Then stood. Then sat again.
“Three. Hundred. Thousand?”
“Correct. In pounds. Yes.”
She stared at the wall. A minute. Then another. Then Edward barged in, grinning, grocery bag in hand.
“Hey, Mum calledsaid maybe you should go on maternity leave. Why slave at that school for pennies?”
“Uh-huh,” Lillian murmured, looking straight through him.
The news spread faster than the flu.
Next morning, Margaret was at the door, smug, clutching a handbag.
“Darling,” she cooed, voice dripping with sugar, “congratulations! I always knew you were our lucky charm! Oh, and the stews not so bad after all. Now, about *managing* that money”
“What money?” Lillian deadpanned.
Margaret fluttered her hands. “Oh, sweetheart, dont be modest! Edward told us. Now, we should open an account in *my* name. Safer that way. Just in case…”
“Right,” Lillian nodded, gripping her mug till her knuckles whitened. “*Just in case*.”
Edward, meanwhile, pretended to fix the TV remote, eyes darting like hed lost his conscience under the sofa.
When Lillian walked out with a suitcase that afternoon, the nosy neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, squinted.
“Off somewhere nice, dear? The Maldives?”
“Yep,” Lillian said. “Via Hull.”
The suitcase was ancient, the lock broken, but it held the essentials: jeans, T-shirts, documents, a toothbrush. The rest? Left behind with Edward and Margaret. Let them enjoy it.
Her best friend, Sophiea divorcee with a nervous twitch from fifteen years married to a human sofawelcomed her.
“Crash here as long as you need,” she said, pointing to the fold-out bed. “Well practise living without men. Though Ive had a three-year head start.”
“Trying to catch up,” Lillian sighed.
Freedom. But something told her this wasnt over.
The calls started that evening. Edward.
“Lil, dont be childish. Mum lost her temper, you lost yourscome home. We need to *talk*.”
“Whos we? You and your mum, or *me*?”
“Dont start”
“*Start?*” Lillians grip tightened. “When it was *my* money, suddenly were *family*? Funny, that never counted when I was scrubbing *your* toilet.”
Next day, Margaret showed up uninvited at Sophies flat, face set in righteous entitlement.
“Lets discuss finances like adults,” she declared, barging in.
Lillian crossed her arms. “What finances?”
Margaret launched into her plan: buy Edward a flat, a car, invest in her nephews *brilliant* tyre shop idea.
“Youre a genius,” Sophie snorted. “Should we draft the will for the tyre shop now?”
Margaret ignored her. “This isnt *your* money. Its *family* money.”
Lillian stood slowly. “Five years, you told me I was nothing. Now youre giving *me* financial advice?”
Margaret hissed, “Because now youre our *hope*!”
“Too late. That ship sailed. Without you.”
Later, Sophie cracked open wine. “To freedom. No mother-in-law. No husband. No bloody tyre shops.”
Lillian clinked her glass. “Cheers.”
Then the bombshell. A loan£25,000in *her* name. A video showed her signing papers at Margarets kitchen table. *”Just insurance forms, darling!”*
Next, Margaret contested the will. Claimed Aunt Dorothy was senile. That *Edward* was the rightful heir.
Lillian did the one thing she never expectedshe called a solicitor.
The divorce was final on a disgustingly sunny day. The judge dismissed Margarets theatricsno, Lillian wasnt “unstable,” and no, the money wasnt “family funds.”
Edward begged outside the courthouse. “Lil, people make mistakes. Were *family*.”
She looked at himreally looked. Five years of labour, of *proving* herself. And now?
“Heres the thing,” she said calmly. “I never had a family. I had an unpaid internship.”
She walked away.
Now? A small flat. A stray cat. A new job. And money*hers*, untouched by greedy hands.
For the first time in years, Lillian woke up free.
And that? That was worth more than three hundred thousand pounds.
