I loved my husband, but he was devoted only to his mother.
Emily and I had been best friends since school, and later we ended up studying at the same university in Manchester. The story I’m about to tell happened to her in her fourth year, and even now, I can’t come to terms with the injustice she faced. It all began like a fairytale—an unexpected inheritance, a chance to change her life, and a move to London. But it ended in betrayal—the cruelest kind, the sort that comes from family.
Her father’s older brother, Uncle William, had spent his whole life in London. He’d built his business from scratch, made his fortune, but his personal life had been less lucky. He never married, never had children, so he poured all his affection into his niece. Emily was the light of his life. He spoiled her with gifts, called her every week, took an interest in her studies. And then he died. Quietly, alone. He’d been ill for a long time but told no one. Emily only learned of his death after the funeral—she was summoned by his solicitor.
Turns out, her uncle had left her a flat in the heart of London—spacious, with high ceilings, recently refurbished. Emily’s father received some money, but the property was willed to her alone. At the time, it seemed like every door had opened—London, a fresh start, endless possibilities. But one thing stood in her way: Emily had Irish citizenship, which meant she couldn’t legally claim the inheritance. She had just one year to find a solution.
Her father suggested a way out—to transfer the flat temporarily to her cousin, his younger sister’s daughter, Charlotte. She had lived in London for years, married a British man, had a son, and already had citizenship. Charlotte agreed straight away: *We’ll put it in my name, and once you sort out your papers, we’ll transfer it back.* Everyone believed her.
Emily got a place at a London university, moved into student halls, and began gathering documents. Everything was going well—she studied, worked part-time, applied for residency. Then Charlotte showed up at her door, saying she was getting a divorce and needed a place to stay with her son. *Just for a little while,* she insisted. Emily didn’t argue. She let them in. At the time, she had no idea she was inviting disaster into her life.
Three months later, Emily went to her flat. Her belongings were packed in a bin bag by the door. The key didn’t turn—the lock had been changed. She knocked, she called, she cried. No answer. She called the police. When they arrived, Charlotte opened the door—calm, confident. She showed them the deed. The officers shrugged. It was all legal. Even the neighbors swore only *”Charlotte and her little one”* lived there. Not a word about Emily.
Emily stood in the hallway with her suitcase, tears streaming down her face. I picked her up, put her in a cab, and took her away. She didn’t say a word—just stared out the window, lips pressed tight. Later came the court battles, letters, solicitors. All for nothing. The flat that was meant to be a new beginning had been stolen—by her own flesh and blood.
Now Emily rents a tiny room. She works three jobs, saving up for a home of her own. Charlotte, last I heard, remarried well—to the very estate agent who helped her sell the London flat.
That’s how it goes—you trust, you hope, you believe. And then you’re betrayed. Not by strangers, but by your own. Family.
