Emily sat in her cosy flat in Manchester, staring out the window as the rain poured down over the little garden below. Her heart ached with bitterness whenever she thought about her ex-mother-in-law, Margaret, and all her boasting. “My son did the honourable thing—left everything to Emily after the divorce! Didn’t take a thing, just walked out with one suitcase, like a proper gentleman!” she’d proudly tell anyone who’d listen. To anyone who didn’t know the truth, it sounded like some grand, noble gesture. But Emily knew exactly how it had really gone down, and the lies burned inside her.
This flat? She’d inherited it from her gran years before she’d even met Daniel. She could still remember how carefully she’d held onto the keys, how every scratch on the walls felt like part of her story. The car? She’d bought it herself, saving up every penny from her office job long before Daniel waltzed into her life. He hadn’t contributed a single pound to any of it. So when Margaret went on about how her son “left it all behind,” Emily just scoffed. What exactly could he have taken? Every stick of furniture, down to the bloody kettle, was either hers or a gift from her parents. Daniel? He’d been more like a lodger than a husband.
Their marriage lasted four years, but for Emily, it felt like four years of carrying dead weight. Daniel had barely worked two years of that time—the rest was spent “finding himself.” Office job? Too far to commute. Shop work? Beneath him. Café manager? Not grand enough for a man of his *potential*. He dreamed big but never lifted a finger. Meanwhile, Emily was up at six every morning, slogging through work while he slept till noon. She paid the bills, stocked the fridge, cooked meals—while he chased some vague idea of success. Sometimes she’d catch herself thinking, *Why did I ever sign up for this?*
When the divorce finally came, she felt both relief and hollowness. She was exhausted from being the only grown-up in the relationship. True to form, Daniel left—with one suitcase, as his mum loved to remind everyone. He’d stormed out, slamming the door like *he* was the victim. And now Margaret spun it as some chivalrous act. “My boy’s a proper saint! Left everything to his ex and started fresh!” Her voice carried across the neighbourhood, and Emily had to clench her fists to stop herself from shouting back. She imagined grabbing Margaret by the shoulders and hissing the truth: *He didn’t leave anything—he never put anything in! He walked out because there was nothing here that belonged to him!*
But Emily kept quiet. She refused to stoop to gossip. Her real friends, her family—they knew the truth. They’d seen her drowning under the weight of it all, crying herself to sleep, wondering if she’d failed him somehow. They’d cheered her on when she finally filed for divorce. As for everyone else? Let them believe Margaret’s fairy tales. Anyone who’d swallow those lies wasn’t worth her time.
Still, every time she overheard snippets of those conversations—“He left *everything* to her!”—anger flared in her chest. It wasn’t generosity—it was a joke. *She* was the one who’d clung to what was always hers. She hadn’t let him wreck her life the way he’d wrecked their marriage. Emily looked around her flat, at the photos on the wall, the plants she’d nursed on the balcony, and thought, *This is mine. I earned it. And no one gets to rewrite my story.*
Now, with the divorce behind her, she was learning to breathe again. She’d signed up for pottery classes, started sketching like she used to as a kid. She smiled more, and the light was creeping back into her eyes. But deep down, the hurt lingered. Not for Daniel—that love had died long ago. It was the injustice that stung. His lies had become legend, while her truth stayed in the shadows. But Emily knew one thing: she’d be okay. She always was.
