Emily sat in the small kitchen of her flat in Manchester, staring out the window where a relentless drizzle soaked the courtyard. Her chest tightened with bitterness every time she recalled the boasts of her former mother-in-law, Margaret. With her chin held high, Margaret paraded her tales to neighbours and friends, painting her son, Oliver, as some sort of saint. “He left Emily everything—the flat, the car, even the furniture! Walked out with just one suitcase, a proper gentleman!” she crowed to anyone who’d listen. To an outsider, it might’ve sounded noble. But Emily knew the truth, and the lie burned like acid in her throat.
The flat she lived in had been her grandmother’s, inherited long before she’d ever met Oliver. She remembered clutching those keys like a lifeline, this space where every scuff on the wall felt like home. The car? She’d bought it herself, penny by penny, saved from years of office work before Oliver had even drifted into her life. He hadn’t contributed a single pound to either. So when Margaret waxed lyrical about her son’s “sacrifice,” Emily could only laugh darkly. What *could* he have taken? Every stick of furniture—from the sofa to the bloody kettle—had been bought by her or gifted by her parents. Oliver? He’d been a lodger in their marriage, never a partner.
Four years they’d been married, though it felt more like a sentence. Oliver had held down a job for maybe two of those. The rest of the time, he was “finding himself.” An office job? Too much of a commute. Retail wages? Beneath him. Managing a café? Not grand enough. He dreamt big but never lifted a finger, while Emily dragged herself out of bed at six every morning, paid the bills, stocked the fridge, cooked the meals—all while he slept till noon and muttered about “his potential.” Some nights, she’d lie awake wondering, *Why did I ever think this was love?*
When the divorce came, relief and hollowness warred inside her. She was exhausted from carrying the weight alone. True to form, Oliver left—with one suitcase, just as his mum loved to remind everyone. He’d slammed the door like *he* was the wronged party, and Margaret had spun it into myth. “My boy’s a proper knight! Left it all behind for her and started fresh!” Her voice rang across the estate, and Emily dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. She pictured grabbing Margaret by the shoulders and hissing the truth: *He didn’t leave it—he never put anything in! He walked away because he had nothing to take!*
But Emily stayed quiet. Gossip wasn’t worth her dignity. Her real friends, her family—they knew. They’d seen her buckling under the strain, crying herself to sleep wondering if she’d failed him. They’d stood by her when she finally ended it. As for the rest? Let them swallow Margaret’s fairy tales. People who lived on whispers weren’t worth her breath.
Still, every time she overheard those smug declarations—”Gave her everything!”—rage bubbled up. It wasn’t a gift. It was *hers*. She hadn’t let him wreck her life the way he’d wrecked their marriage. Emily’s gaze swept over her flat, the photos on the wall, the potted herbs on the windowsill she’d grown herself. *This is mine. I earned it. And no one steals my truth.*
Now, with the divorce behind her, Emily was relearning how to live. She’d signed up for pottery classes, started running in the mornings. She smiled more, and the light was creeping back into eyes that had gone dull over those years. But buried deep, the injustice still ached. Not for love of Oliver—that had died long ago. But because his lies got applause while her truth stayed untold. Still, she’d survive. She always did.
