“We raised you for this very reason.”
“Mum, I—”
“I gave you the most, so I deserve the most in return. Or have you forgotten about the flat already?”
Mum’s voice over the phone was sharp, grating against Lily’s nerves like a knife. She wedged the receiver between her shoulder and ear, one hand steadying the saucepan, the other stirring porridge for breakfast.
“Mum, we already agreed—James and I are going to his parents’ this Saturday,” Lily replied, fighting to keep the strain out of her voice. “They need help in the garden. There’s loads to do.”
“And my things will just unpack themselves, then?” snapped Ingrid with a scoff. “The movers bailed again. Boxes won’t shift themselves. Be here by morning—we’ll finish by lunch, and you can still go play gardeners.”
Lily sank into a chair, pulse thudding in her ears. These conversations never changed. Mum never *asked*. She demanded—with arguments like iron weights, each one dragging the chains of obligation tighter.
“Mum, we promised them. They barely see us as it is. I can’t just cancel.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” Ingrid’s voice climbed. “After everything I’ve done, my own daughter turns her back on me?”
Lily shut her eyes. Here it came.
“Remember your wedding? Who paid for your flat? His parents?” A bitter laugh. “They can’t even afford to fix their own leaking roof. If not for me, you’d still be renting some mouldy shoebox.”
James had heard everything from the hallway. Or enough to piece the rest together from Lily’s stiff shoulders. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. She didn’t need to look up to feel his gaze.
“You heard?” she murmured after hanging up.
“Enough,” he said flatly. “Tell her not to call again. Does she think she *bought* us?”
Lily opened her mouth, but the words dissolved. She understood him. Every time Mum “reminded” them of her generosity, the flat felt less like a home and more like borrowed space—with Ingrid as the landlord.
James stalked to the balcony, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the mugs.
Lily sat, hands pressed to her temples. At first, she’d believed Mum just wanted the best for her. Now, the truth soured every memory.
At the wedding, Ingrid had been radiant—wearing crimson silk as though *she* were the bride. A lavish spread, a live band—all bankrolled by her.
When gifts were presented, she’d stood, holding an envelope aloft. “For your future,” she’d declared loudly enough for James’ parents, Margaret and George, to hear. “A proper start.”
The number she’d announced made Lily flush. James had squeezed her hand under the table. Later, his parents gave their own envelope—humbly, without fanfare.
“Not much,” George had muttered, red-cheeked. “But given freely. Be patient with each other.”
Ingrid had been too busy charming distant relatives to notice. Numbers mattered more than sentiment.
Now, Lily eyed the flat’s pale walls, the microwave, the tea set—all funded by that envelope. But it wasn’t a gift. It was an investment. And lately, Mum seemed determined to cash in.
———
A fortnight passed. Calls dwindled to stiff exchanges initiated only by Ingrid. James refused to engage.
“Go if you want,” he told Lily. “I won’t sit through another lecture about *repaying* kindness. Gifts shouldn’t come with invoices.”
It stung, but Lily couldn’t argue.
Steeling herself, she finally confronted Mum. “We *are* grateful—but gratitude isn’t a debt.”
Ingrid’s brows shot up. “*What*? No such thing as a free lunch, love. Children owe their parents. We raise you for a reason.”
Something in Lily snapped.
She remembered flat-hunting—scouring Rightmove for months. They’d found a tidy one-bed in Surrey, affordable and bright.
“Don’t be absurd,” Ingrid had scoffed then. “I’ll top up your budget. You’ll thank me later.”
James had refused. “We’ll manage.”
Back then, Lily had rolled her eyes. “*Honestly, it’s not like she’s charging interest.*”
Now, she was grateful for his stubbornness.
———
Even Margaret and George had grown frosty. Once warm, Margaret now spoke in clipped tones. George’s jokes carried barbs.
“Heard your flat’s down to the *mother-in-law*,” he’d remarked over tea. “Lucky lad, marrying into money.”
Lily soon learned why: at James’ birthday, Ingrid had bragged to relatives, “*I practically bought that flat. His parents couldn’t scrape together a penny.*”
The truth? George and Margaret had contributed a quarter.
———
That evening, Lily faced James. “I’m—torn. But I *see* it now. Her ‘help’ costs too much.”
He set aside his phone. “It’s not help. It’s a leash.”
She nodded. “No more deals disguised as care.”
But Ingrid didn’t relent.
“Fetch Aunt Rose from Victoria Station,” came her next demand. “Three AM. Taxis won’t run that late.”
Lily inhaled. “We can’t. James has work. If you’d *asked* sooner—”
“Of course,” Ingrid sneered. “*His* family gets priority.”
A pause. Then, venomous: “*Fine*. Don’t come crying when *you* need something.”
Lily held firm. “I’m not your property. Neither is James.”
The line went dead.
———
A week later, a mutual friend let slip: “*Your mum’s telling everyone James married you for the flat.*”
Lily’s blood ran cold.
They saw a solicitor the next Monday, signing over a quarter-share to James—matching his parents’ contribution. A small legal shift, but to Lily, it was freedom.
She texted Ingrid: *Thank you. But help isn’t a transaction. No more talk of money—to anyone.*
Ingrid never replied.
———
Three months on, Lily stood in George and Margaret’s garden, flipping burgers while James bickered fondly with his dad over a wobbly fence.
No spreadsheets of favours. No tally of debts. Just quiet belonging.
James nudged her shoulder. “Less money, more peace. Yeah?”
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Some choices were simple.
(—)
*Gifts given with strings aren’t gifts—they’re bargains in disguise. And no amount of wealth outweighs the cost of a heart held hostage.*
