*Too Close for Comfort*
Emily stared at her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she read the unexpected message:
*”Hello, my dear. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to reach out—there were reasons. We parted ways when you were three, so I know you won’t remember me. I won’t pretend to regret my choices—I fell in love with someone else, and I don’t believe that makes me a villain. I left your mother the flat we shared, my belongings, and paid child support, modest but consistent. I did my part.*
*Now, to business. Five years ago, I moved with my new family to Australia, where we’ve settled comfortably. My mother—your grandmother, Margaret—refused to leave. She lived alone in her small two-bed flat until her passing. I covered her care and expenses but couldn’t return for the funeral—too costly, too complicated. With no close relatives left, selling her place would yield little profit for the hassle. So, I’ve arranged for it to go to you. A solicitor has the paperwork ready. You’ll only need to cover minor fees and taxes. And tend to your grandmother’s grave—plant flowers, commission a headstone. A small price for an entire flat.*
*This is for you alone. Your mother received my share of the old flat, support payments—she and her new partner, their children, are not my concern. This is yours.* *
*Be happy, Emily. Your father, James Bennett.”*
Details for a London solicitor followed.
Emily dialed immediately. She confirmed the arrangements, scheduling a meeting for the next afternoon. She wouldn’t tell her mother yet—not until she saw it for herself.
The thought made her heart race. Their current flat was suffocating—her half-sister, Sophie, Sophie’s husband, and their two toddlers crammed into one room while Emily and her mother shared the other. She’d scraped together savings for a mortgage deposit on some dismal studio, but now? A whole flat—hers. She could finally breathe. No blaring telly, no sticky-fingered nephews rifling through her things. A quiet bath, late-night coffee at her own table, work without interruption. Maybe even a social life—without judgment.
The next day, the solicitor—a polished man in a slightly rumpled suit—verified everything. He drove her to the flat, an aging but solid ex-council property in need of work, and handed her the keys. “Legally, it’s six months before full transfer,” he said. “But you can secure it now—change the locks. Let the neighbors know someone’s taking charge.”
That evening, her mother’s reaction was predictably sour. “Why’s *James* involving you?” she snapped.
Emily stiffened. “Because I’m his daughter.”
“And I was his *wife*. This should’ve gone through me!”
“It was *Margaret’s* flat, Mum. Dad couldn’t sell from Australia, so it’s come to me.”
Her mother’s glare darkened. “So you’ll just swan off, leave us packed in here like sardines?”
Emily clenched her fists. “It’s my chance, Mum. I’ve been shoved aside ever since Sophie popped out kids and moved her deadbeat husband in. I’m twenty-two—I deserve my own life!”
Her mother scoffed. “Selfish. Sophie has a family to care for!”
“And I don’t?” Emily’s voice cracked. “Because no decent bloke wants a girl living with her mum and screaming toddlers? This flat changes everything!”
“Or—” Her mother’s tone turned wheedling. “We combine both flats. Trade up—”
“And end up in another shared prison? No.”
“You’d abandon us?”
Emily turned away, yanking on headphones as the telly’s volume spiked—some garish talk show her mother knew she despised. Silent tears burned down her mother’s cheeks, but Emily didn’t glance back. The door to her future was opening at last.
