I adored my husband, but his loyalty belonged solely to his mother.
Emily and I had been friends since secondary school, later attending the same university in Liverpool. The story I’m about to share happened during our final year, and to this day, I can’t reconcile the injustice she suffered. It began like a fairy tale—an unexpected inheritance, a chance to change her life, a move to London. But it ended in betrayal—the cruelest kind, the kind only family can inflict.
Her father’s elder brother, Uncle Henry, had spent his whole life in London. He built his business from scratch, made his fortune, but his personal life had been lonely—no wife, no children—so he poured all his affection into his niece. Emily was his joy. He spoiled her with gifts, called weekly, asked about her studies. Then, quietly, he passed away. He’d been ill for months but told no one. Emily only learned of his death after the funeral when his solicitor contacted her.
She inherited a flat in central London—spacious, high-ceilinged, freshly renovated. Her father received some money, but the flat was left solely to her. For a moment, it seemed every door had opened—London, a new life, endless opportunities. But there was one problem: Emily held a residency permit, not full citizenship, and legally, she couldn’t claim the inheritance outright. She had a year to find a solution.
Her father suggested a way out—transfer the flat temporarily to her cousin, Lucy, his younger sister’s daughter. Lucy had lived in London for years, was married to a British citizen, had a son, and already had full citizenship. She agreed immediately, promising to transfer it back once Emily sorted her paperwork. Everyone trusted her.
Emily got into a London university, moved into student housing, and began gathering documents. Things were going well—she studied, took odd jobs, applied for permanent residency. Then Lucy showed up at her door, saying she was divorcing and needed a place to stay. “Just for a little while,” she insisted. Emily didn’t argue and let her in. She didn’t know she was inviting chaos into her life.
Three months later, Emily returned to her flat to find her belongings packed into bin bags in the hallway. The door wouldn’t open—the lock had been changed. She knocked, rang the bell, cried. No response. She called the police. When they arrived, Lucy answered, calm and self-assured. She showed them the deeds. The officers shrugged—it was all legal. Even the neighbours swore that only “Lucy and her son” lived there. Emily’s name never came up.
She stood in that hallway, suitcase in hand, silent tears running down her face. I picked her up, put her in a cab, and took her away. She didn’t speak a word—just stared out the window, jaw clenched. Later came the courts, the letters, the solicitors. All pointless. The flat that should’ve been her new beginning had been stolen—by her own blood.
Now, Emily rents a room. She works three jobs, saving for her own place. Lucy, last I heard, remarried—to the very estate agent who helped her sell that London flat.
That’s the way of it sometimes—you trust, you hope, you believe. And then you’re betrayed. Not by enemies, but by family. The ones who should protect you the most.
