“What do you mean, give up my share?” Emma’s voice wavered. “Margaret, this is my husband’s inheritance!”
“My son’s inheritance,” Margaret snapped, standing tall. “Not yours. You’re just passing through. Oliver is mine, not yours.”
“Passing through?” Emma felt heat rise from her chest to her throat. “We’ve been married eight years!”
“Eight years is nothing,” Margaret sneered. “My first marriage lasted twenty-three. Then we divorced. So don’t act like some permanent wife.”
Emma stood in the kitchen, stunned. Half an hour ago, she’d been making Sunday roast, relieved her mother-in-law had finally agreed to discuss the flat after her father-in-law’s death. Now this.
“Margaret, let’s talk calmly,” Emma steadied herself. “Henry left the flat to Oliver. Legally, half of it’s mine as his wife.”
“Nothing’s yours!” Margaret raised her voice. “My husband got this flat in 1975. I’ve lived here forty-eight years! Raised kids, minded grandkids! And who are you? Turned up from god-knows-where, charmed Oliver, and now you want a piece?”
“I’m from York, not ‘god-knows-where’,” Emma said quietly. “And I didn’t charm anyone. Oliver and I love each other.”
“Love,” Margaret scoffed. “At your age? You’re thirty-eight—clock’s ticking. You just want a London postcode.”
Oliver walked in then, grocery bags in hand. He froze at the sight of his wife and mother.
“What’s going on?” he asked, setting the bags down.
“Your mother wants me to give up my share of the flat,” Emma said evenly.
Oliver looked between them. “Mum, we agreed we’d all live together. Why this now?”
“Darling,” Margaret’s tone turned sweet, “I’m thinking of your future. What if you divorce? She’ll take half the flat.”
“Mum, enough. We’re not divorcing.”
“Oh, of course not,” Margaret mocked. “Neither was I, until I was. Life’s unpredictable.”
Emma watched as Oliver shifted awkwardly, like a schoolboy caught unprepared.
“Mum, why do this?” he finally said. “Emma’s family.”
“Family?” Margaret repeated. “Then where are the grandchildren? Eight years, nothing to show. Maybe she can’t even have them.”
Emma’s cheeks burned. They’d tried for years—doctors, treatments, nothing worked.
“That’s private,” she ground out.
“Private?” Margaret shook her head. “My son marries a barren woman, and I’m supposed to stay quiet? I’m seventy—how long should I wait?”
“Mum, stop!” Oliver raised his voice. “That’s out of line.”
“Truth hurts, does it?” Margaret pulled out a handkerchief. “Maybe she should divorce you and find someone simpler.”
Emma untied her apron. “I’m leaving.”
She packed a bag in the bedroom, hands shaking. Was this really happening?
Oliver followed. “Em, don’t listen to her. She’s just worried.”
“Worried? She demanded I give up my home!”
“She’s afraid of ending up homeless. This flat’s her whole life.”
“And I’m kicking her out? It’s four bedrooms—there’s space for everyone!”
Oliver rubbed his temples. “She doesn’t trust paperwork. Thinks if we split, she’ll lose out.”
Emma stared at him. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. You’re my wife.”
“Then why didn’t you defend me?”
Silence.
“I’m staying with Sophie tonight,” Emma zipped her bag. “I need to think.”
In the hallway, Margaret smirked. “Leaving? Good. Sort that head of yours.”
“Margaret, understand this—I’m not after your flat. I just want to know I have a home.”
“You’ve got one. In York.”
“Strangers live there now.”
“Then find somewhere else.”
On the stairs, Emma wiped tears. Eight years of marriage, eight years of trying to be the perfect wife, daughter-in-law—cooking, cleaning, nursing Margaret through flu. For this?
Sophie gaped when she answered the door. “Blimey, you look awful.”
“Worse,” Emma said, stepping inside. “Can I stay?”
Over tea, she told Sophie everything.
“I warned you,” Sophie sighed. “Remember her digs about your age, no kids? She was setting the stage—making you seem less than a proper wife.”
“Why?”
“You took her son’s attention. She’s used to being his priority.” Sophie refilled their cups. “Listen, maybe she’s right. Maybe you should give up the share.”
“Sophie!”
“Hear me out. Oliver won’t stand up to her. Think he’ll change at forty-three?”
“It’s not fair! Legally, half is mine!”
“Legally, yes. But practically? You’ll lose both him and the flat. If you push this, Margaret will break you up.”
“How?”
“Easily. Daily poison—‘she’s greedy, married you for the flat’. How long till he cracks?”
Emma stayed silent. Sophie was right.
“So what? I give in and live on her mercy?”
“Compromise. Give up the share but get lifetime occupancy rights. Or a payout if you divorce.”
“She’d never agree.”
“Better than losing half the flat outright.”
The next day, Emma saw a solicitor.
“Technically,” the solicitor said, “inheritance isn’t marital property. Even after eight years, Oliver’s flat stays his. But you’d have claim on improvements—renovations, furniture bought jointly.”
“And if I give it all up?”
“You get nothing. But you could negotiate guarantees—like right to stay.”
At home, Oliver hugged her. “Thank god you’re back!”
“Where’s your mother?”
“At the neighbor’s. We can talk.”
He took her hands. “Em, I’m sorry. I was spineless.”
“Do you really want me to give up my share?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Mum’s terrified of ending up homeless.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re strong. You’d manage.”
Emma saw the choice—lose him or the flat.
“Fine,” she said. “But with conditions.”
Margaret agreed reluctantly. “Guarantees? We’re family!”
“Then put it in writing,” Emma said.
Papers were signed a week later. Emma gave up her share but got lifetime rights and a divorce payout clause.
Signing, she thought it the most humiliating thing she’d ever done. But family mattered more.
Afterward, Margaret turned sweet, even helping with chores.
“See?” she said. “Now we can live peacefully.”
“Yes,” Emma agreed. “Now I know my place.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re family—Oliver’s beloved wife.”
“Family with no say.”
“But a roof over your head,” Margaret smiled. “That counts.”
Emma nodded, washing dishes. Yes, it counted. She’d bought peace at the cost of dignity. Now she knew her voice meant nothing here.
But she had a home. And a husband who loved her—as much as his mother allowed.
That had to be enough. Had to.
