I loved my husband, but he was only devoted to his mother.
Me and Emily had been best mates since school, and later ended up at the same uni in York. The story I’m about to tell happened to her in her final year, and even now, I can’t get over how unfair it all was. It started like a fairy tale—an unexpected inheritance, a shot at changing her life, moving to London. But in the end, it turned into the worst kind of betrayal, the kind that comes from family.
Her dad’s older brother, Uncle Edward, had spent his whole life in London. He’d built his business from scratch, made good money, but luck never came his way when it came to love—no wife, no kids. All his affection went to his niece. Emily was the light of his life. He spoiled her with gifts, called every week, asked about her studies. Then he passed—quietly, alone. He’d been ill for a while but never told a soul. Emily only found out after the funeral, when a solicitor reached out.
Turns out, Uncle Edward had left her a flat in central London—spacious, high ceilings, recently refurbished. Her dad got a chunk of cash, but the flat was meant for her. At first, it felt like the world was opening up—London, a fresh start, endless possibilities. Only one thing stood in her way: Emily was Irish, which meant she couldn’t claim the inheritance directly. She had just a year to sort it out.
Her dad had a solution—transfer the flat to her cousin, Sophie, his younger sister’s daughter. Sophie had lived in London for years, married a Brit, had a son, and already had UK citizenship. Sophie agreed straight away: “We’ll sort the papers, and once you’ve got your residency, we’ll transfer it back.” Everyone trusted her.
Emily got into a London uni, moved into student halls, and started gathering documents. Things were looking up—she was studying, working part-time, applying for residency. Then one day, Sophie turned up on her doorstep saying she was getting divorced and needed a place for her and her son. “Just for a little while,” she insisted. Emily didn’t argue, let her in. She had no idea she was inviting trouble into her life.
Three months later, Emily went back to her flat. Her things were stuffed into a bin bag in the hallway. The door wouldn’t open—the lock had been changed. She knocked, rang the bell, even cried. No answer. She called the police. When they arrived, Sophie answered—calm, collected. She showed them the paperwork, and they just shrugged. Legally, it was all above board. Even the neighbours backed her up, saying only “Lovely Sophie” and her kid lived there. Not a word about Emily.
She stood in that hallway with her suitcase, tears rolling down her face. I went and picked her up, got her into a cab, and took her home. She didn’t say a word—just stared out the window, lips pressed tight. After that came court hearings, letters, solicitors. Useless. The flat that was supposed to be her fresh start had been stolen, and by her own family.
Now, Emily rents a tiny room. Works three jobs, saving up for a place of her own. And Sophie? Last I heard, she remarried—some estate agent who helped her sell that London flat.
That’s just how it goes—you trust, you hope, you believe. And then you get betrayed. Not by enemies. By family.
