I loved my husband, but he was only devoted to his mother.
Annie and I had been friends since school, and later we went to the same university in York. The story I’m about to tell happened to her in her fourth year, and to this day, I can’t come to terms with the injustice she faced. It all started like a fairy tale—an unexpected inheritance, a chance to change her life, a move to the capital. But it ended in betrayal—the cruelest kind, the kind only family can inflict.
Her father’s older brother, Uncle Michael, had spent his whole life in London. He’d built his business from scratch, made his fortune, but luck never favored him in love. No wife, no children—all his warmth went to his niece. Annie was the light of his life. He spoiled her with gifts, called every week, asked about her studies. Then he died. Quietly, alone. He’d been ill for a long time but told no one. Annie only found out after the funeral—she was summoned by a solicitor.
It turned out Uncle Michael had left her a flat in the heart of London—spacious, high-ceilinged, freshly renovated. Her father received a share of the money, but the property was willed to her alone. At the time, it felt like every door had opened—London, a new life, endless possibilities. Only one thing stood in her way: Annie had an Irish passport, meaning she couldn’t claim the inheritance outright. She had just a year to find a solution.
Her father suggested a way out—transfer the flat to his cousin’s daughter, Olivia. She’d lived in London for years, married a local, had a son, and already held a British passport. Olivia agreed straight away—just a formality, she said. Once Annie sorted her status, they’d transfer it back. Everyone believed her.
Annie enrolled at a London university, moved into student halls, and started gathering documents. Things were going well—she studied, took odd jobs, applied for residency. Then Olivia turned up on her doorstep, saying she was getting a divorce and needed somewhere to stay. “Just for a little while,” she insisted. Annie didn’t argue. She let her in. She didn’t know she was inviting disaster into her life.
Three months later, Annie returned to her flat. Her belongings were stuffed into a bin bag in the hallway. The door wouldn’t open—the locks had been changed. She knocked, called, cried. No answer. She rang the police. When they arrived, Olivia answered—calm, composed. She showed them the deeds. The officers shrugged. Everything was legal. Even the neighbours swore blind only “Lizzie” and her child lived there. Not a word about Annie.
Annie stood in that hallway with her suitcase, tears rolling down her face. I came to get her, put her in a cab, and took her away. She didn’t say a word—just stared out the window, lips pressed tight. There were court battles, letters, solicitors. All useless. The flat that was meant to be her fresh start had been stolen—by her own blood.
Now Annie rents a tiny room. She works three jobs, saving for a place of her own. Olivia, last I heard, remarried—some estate agent who helped her sell the London flat.
That’s how it goes, isn’t it? You trust, you hope, you believe. And then you’re betrayed. Not by enemies—by family.
