**Diary Entry**
I found a warmer neck to cling to.
“Hold on—stop! He’s been wasting my money, and now I owe him? Since when?” I snapped.
“He’s your father!” Mum shot back.
Emily arched her brows so high they nearly vanished. Mum stood there, arms crossed, eyes locked onto mine. The kitchen was stifling—stale air, just like our relationship.
“He left me half the flat. That man is nothing to me,” I said, voice steady.
“You must understand,” Mum pressed. “He’s lived here ten years. He’s put into this place, helped where he could.”
I nearly scoffed.
“Helped? When, Mum? When he lectured me about frying chips the right way while he couldn’t even scramble an egg?”
“Maybe not financially,” she mumbled. “But he’s family. You called him Dad once.”
My gaze fixed on the fridge magnets—souvenirs from trips with Dad. The collection stopped growing the moment Victor moved in.
“I said it once. At fourteen. To spare your feelings,” I admitted. “And he waved it around like a trophy.”
A memory surfaced, unbidden: me begging to go to the cinema with friends. Victor’s voice, calm and cutting—”Girls should be at home, not gallivanting about.”
I’d lain in bed, listening to him grumble to Mum: “You spoiled her. A princess, that’s what she is. All money, no sense.”
This was just the start. The nitpicking never stopped—my clothes, my meals, my words. He ordered me around like a maid in his own little kingdom.
I knew the truth: at work, no one listened. Here, he could shout, slam his fist, pretend he mattered.
“Mum,” I snapped back to reality. “Half this flat is legally mine. Victor’s name isn’t on the deed.”
“Emily, you don’t get it. If we sell and split it two ways, Victor—he’d take it as betrayal. He practically sees you as his daughter.”
“Right. So what if I sell my half to a stranger? He’ll share the kitchen with a buyer—is that betrayal too?”
Mum went silent, lips trembling. Afraid to be alone.
“He’s been here years,” she whispered. “Put his heart into this place.”
“I feel it,” I said. “I feel that if I don’t stand my ground now, no one will. And I feel that if I don’t, I’ll end up like you—stuck with some man leeching off me and my kids.”
I left. Couldn’t stay in that stranger’s house, beside the stranger who raised me.
Outside, spring was just beginning. Bus engines hummed, kids licked ice creams, heels clicked on pavement. Life moved on, as if no earthquake had just split our lives.
I didn’t call Mum for a week. Why speak to someone who only echoes another’s voice?
I focused on selling. A realtor friend helped—found a buyer quickly. A quiet, divorced man. Polite, sensible. Didn’t set Mum off. Miracle, really.
Later, the messages flooded in.
“Emily… you’re not just selling a flat. You’re selling our family.”
The guilt gnawed at me. Was I wrong? Renting forever wasn’t an option, but neither was living under his thumb.
I rang Dad. We barely spoke, but I needed a clear head.
“You remember the flat you left me and Mum?”
“Course. What’s happened?”
“Mum wants Victor to get a cut. Says he’s ‘earned it’ by living there.”
A long pause. Then a weary sigh.
“I didn’t fight over that flat for nothing. Gave you a head start—your own place someday. Not for her to hand it to some stranger.”
That was news. I’d always thought half was all I’d get.
“So you think I’m right?”
“You’re an adult. Do what’s smart, not spiteful.”
Easier said. Another memory flashed—me at college, working weekends handing out flyers. My first proper paycheck, spent on treats: yogurt, cheese, a bit of smoked sausage. I stashed them in the fridge.
Next morning, only scraps remained. Victor sat there, stuffing his face.
“Did you take my food?”
“What’s yours is ours,” he said. “Till you’ve kids, you’ll learn.”
I stopped buying extra. But it wasn’t just food. Mum always needed money—”detergent’s run out,” though I’d bought a full tub weeks ago.
My wages vanished into Victor’s belly while he lounged about, dictating my life.
Not anymore. I signed the papers, thanked the realtor, stepped into the cold with a hollow kind of lightness.
No call to Mum. No word from her. Silence settled between us like dust.
It took weeks to exhale. I treated myself—new bedsheets, a massage, decent trainers. Nothing grand, just mine. Then, flat hunting. A studio, tiny but my own. No lectures, no stolen meals.
Half a year passed. If not for Gran, I’d never have known.
“Emily, love. How are you?”
“Fine, Gran. You?”
“Well, calming your mother, mostly.”
A pause. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, it’s a mess. She sold the flat too.”
“Seriously?”
“Couldn’t take it. Victor—well, he’s not a people person.”
I sank onto the bed. Words stuck in my throat.
“She’s renting now?”
“Mm. Thought they’d get a two-bed, maybe start fresh. But the money—Victor blew it. New clothes, restaurants. Then, when it ran dry… he left. Found himself a warmer neck to cling to.”
No gloating. Just quiet clarity. Shame it took this long.
“She says you ruined the family,” Gran added. “That if you’d just endured—”
“Endured?” I cut in. “She didn’t endure me when I annoyed her precious husband.”
Gran sighed. She understood but wanted peace.
“Don’t be hard on her. She regrets it, deep down.”
We talked of weather, health, my cousin off to the Army. Then the call died. I didn’t ring back. Needed to digest it all.
Next day, I wandered past shop fronts, cafés, estate agents. Life, mundane as ever. Only now—silence in my head.
A sign caught my eye: *Property for Sale*. Behind glass, glossy photos of flats. My hand slid into my pocket, fingers curling around keys—mine. Heavy, metal.
No one tells me how to slice bread now. No one rifles through my things.
And Mum? Well. She chose her priorities.
**Lesson learned:** Some necks aren’t worth the warmth.
