Dont worry, dear, she wont get a penny, he boasted, oblivious to his wifes listening ears.
Emily was trudging home, exhausted.
It was a damp autumn evening a weekday, the kind that makes the cobbles glisten. In her bags were a loaf of bread, a jug of milk, a packet of rolled oats, and a few apples. The stairwell, as always, reeked of mildew and boiled cabbage, and the lone bulb above the secondfloor landing flickered in a nervous, stutterlike rhythm, as if signalling an alarm.
She climbed to the third floor and, almost reflexively, reached for the railing. At that moment she saw the door of her motherinlaws flat on the landing halfopen. From within she heard her husband, Thomas, speaking.
Dont worry, Mum. Everythings taken care of. The flat is mine under the prenup. She wont even notice until shes left with nothing. The signature looks authentic.
Emilys heart dropped into her shoes.
Thats right, love, the older woman replied. She never gave you an heir, so why should she claim the flat? Shes merely a temporary inconvenience.
Pressed against the wall, Emily clutched the handles of her shopping bags as if they might anchor her to reality. Silently, she slipped upstairs like a shadow.
She closed the door behind her and set the bags down on the kitchen table. The loaf tipped, the apples rolled across the floor she made no effort to catch them. She simply perched on the stool by the radiator, staring into the void.
The words from below pounded in her mind like a hammer on iron.
She wont even notice The signature looks authentic
Stupid. Did he truly think she wouldnt see through it?
It had all begun with the word convenient. Six years earlier, when they were hunting a flat, Thomas spoke with the confidence of a man who had already made the decision.
Moms flat is just one floor down. Thats a plus! Shell be there to help, keep an eye on things. Well pay off the mortgage faster. Makes sense, doesnt it, Emily?
He called it family support.
Emily nodded. She didnt know how to argue, and she didnt wish to. The important thing was to have their own place, their own roof, even if a mortgage lay over it. At least it wouldnt be a rented room with someone elses rules.
They registered the flat in both their names. Then the paperwork began.
Sign this, Thomas would leave a sheet on the kitchen table beside her tea cup. Just standard stuff, the bank needs it.
Or, The solicitors said its for insurance. Pure formality.
She signed, not because she was foolish, but because she trusted him. Who questions a formality with the man you share a bed, a mortgage, and meals with?
Her motherinlaw, Margaret, never hid her disapproval:
Youre cold. No tenderness, no smile. Everything with you runs on a schedule. Not a woman an audit in a skirt.
Emily took no offense she simply stayed silent. Only when Thomas left for work or the gym did she allow herself a breath, a sigh, as if climbing a hill.
Margaret meddled in everything: the curtains, the dishes, the frequency of marital dates, as she called them. Even the soup.
Not salty enough. Do you even know how to cook?
Emily never snapped back. She did her part laundry, bills, Saturday cleaning, sorting the wash by colour. She lived by what she thought were shared rules, only to discover they were someone elses.
Now the little formalities she had signed without a second thought had turned into a weapon against her, forged with her own name.
She stared at an apple that had rolled under the fridge and thought, for the first time, Perhaps I have merely existed on paper, not truly lived.
She said nothing that night, nor at breakfast, nor over coffee the next morning. Everything went on as before: Thomas darted through breakfast, complained about traffic, planted a quick kiss on her cheek, and slammed the door as he left. Only now she no longer watched him go.
When he departed, Emily opened the bottom drawer of his desk. The folder of documents lay there, as careless as ever. With trembling fingers she rifled through the papers until she found the Prenuptial Agreement.
Inside were their names and clauses stating that the flat would belong to Thomas should a divorce occur. Dated a month before the wedding. Her signature almost.
She examined it long enough to see that the E was slanted in a way she had never written.
Two hours later she met her old law school friend, Claire, at a café by the window.
Its a forgery, Claire said after scanning the copy. Well need a handwriting expert. For now, keep quiet. Dont let him suspect.
That evening Emily slipped a tiny voice recorder under the dresser in the hallway. She photographed the signature and compared it with her passport.
The next day she caught Thomas in the bathroom, whispering to his mother:
Relax, Mum. She hasnt noticed a thing.
Three days passed. Emily kept to the routine laundry, mopping, stacking groceries but now she counted Thomass steps, listened to his tone, and kept asking herself how he could sit beside her and lie so calmly.
On Saturday she made his favourite beef stew with garlic and fried onions, and baked an apple crumble. Thomas arrived cheerful, tapping his fingers to the music on his phone.
Smells amazing! Im dead tired. Lets eat?
They ate in silence. Emily was calm, almost icy. When he finished his second bowl, she dried her hands on a towel and met his gaze.
I heard your conversation with your mother, and I found the contract. You didnt even forge my signature properly.
Thomas froze, then forced a sharp smile.
What nonsense? As always, youre making things up.
Emily placed the copy of the document on the table and played the recording, his voice clear:
The flat is mine under the prenup.
He went pale, then flushed.
Everything depends on me! Youre nothing! You cant prove a thing. Its already done. Keep causing trouble and youll be out of here in your slippers.
Emily rose, steady.
Thank you, Thomas. Youve just handed me the victory.
The following day she lodged the papers. Claire handled the divorce petition, the motion to declare the prenup void, and the request for a handwriting analysis.
The experts confirmed: the script was not Emilys. The slant, the pressure, the curve of the r were all wrong. The audio recordings also proved Thomass intent to leave his wife penniless. Claire smiled.
Its clean. The scheme he was so proud of now works against him.
In court Thomas sat sullen, lips a thin line. His mother sat beside him, clutching her purse, not ashamed but disappointed that his plan had collapsed.
The judge wasted no time.
Signature forged. Contract invalid. Audio confirms intent. The flat remains with the wife. The defendant shall pay compensation.
After the hearing, Emily stood at the courthouse entrance, clutching a copy of the judgment. The paper rustled as if breathing.
Thomas passed by without meeting her eyes, his mother trailing behind.
You shouldnt have eavesdropped, he muttered. Youve ruined everything.
Emily gave no answer. She turned and walked to the bus stop, steady, straight.
When Thomas finally moved out over two nights, without farewells the flat fell quiet. No more of his footsteps, no motherinlaws voice on the phone, no slammed doors in the mornings.
A week later Margaret rang the doorbell. Emily opened without looking through the peephole.
Shall we not be enemies? Were still family, the motherinlaw murmured, holding a tin of shortbread.
Emily shut the door without a word, not harshly but calmly.
That same day she pulled down the dark curtains, discarded the wedding china, bought a new kettle, painted the kitchen walls a light cream, laid down a rug she had always wanted even though it didnt match the sofa. She moved the bed, not to suit Margarets feng shui, but for her own comfort. A bright potted plant found a place on the windowsill.
She made tea, opened the window, and sat at the table. This was her place, at last.
A year later Emily was a senior analyst at the same firm. She had just been offered a managerial role and, for the first time, felt certain she could handle it.
She lived alone, peacefully, with weekend trips, unhurried mornings, and Saturday pottery classes. There she met Edward, a widowed instructor, slightly balding, with a quiet voice and warm hands. He never laughed loudly, but his chuckle was contagious.
Youve got the hands of someone whos been through this before, he said once, watching her shape a vase.
They began seeing each other more often, no grand promises, just shared warmth.
One evening, seated in her newly bright kitchen, Emily cradled a cup of tea and smiled.
Now I know, she thought, that whatever is whispered through the walls, the most important voice is the one that comes from within my own life.
