**Diary Entry**
No Country Retreat for Us!
As Emma turned the key in the lock, she sensed something was off. The flat wasn’t empty. Voices drifted from the kitchen—one a man’s, the other an older woman’s. Her mother-in-law must have dropped by unannounced. Emma grimaced. Their relationship had always been strained—polite on the surface, but laced with constant criticism. She considered slipping out, making a quick trip to the shops to avoid the confrontation.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she froze. Something in their tone made her pause. She listened—and what she heard left her numb.
“Don’t worry, Emma will agree to the country house soon,” Henry said calmly.
“Just make sure it’s in your name,” his mother replied. Emma’s eyebrows shot up. Seriously?
“I’ll figure out how to persuade her. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll buy it together anyway—split the cost. But her flat would stay hers if we divorced. That’s not fair. We’ve been living at my place for two years—I deserve something too.”
Emma’s blood ran cold. Divorce?
“Absolutely,” his mother agreed. “You and Sophie could get something bigger then. How are things with her, anyway?”
Sophie? Who the hell was Sophie?
“Fine. She wants me to hurry up with the divorce, but I’ve told her to wait. Once we get the country house, I’ll file. I’ll convince Emma to transfer everything to my account—she’s trusting like that.”
Emma clutched the wall, ears ringing. Fragments of their relationship flashed before her—their first meeting, their recent visit to the estate agent where she’d planned to *surprise* Henry by selling her flat to fund the retreat. The cake she’d bought on the way home still sat in the bag.
Mum had been right all along. *Don’t sell. The flat is your safety net.*
Silently, Emma strode to the bedroom and started packing. A minute later, Henry appeared in the doorway.
“Emma? You’re home? What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Her voice shook. “You wanted my flat in *your* name, didn’t you? Well, tough luck! The renovation was paid with *my* money—I’ve got every digital receipt! And everything we bought together? We’ll split it. Consider the free ride over.”
His mother, hearing her tone, made a swift exit. Henry stammered denials, but it was too late.
Then Emma remembered it all.
When she turned twenty-one, her parents gifted her a one-bedroom flat. *”This is your anchor,”* Mum had said. *”Never sell it. Always have somewhere to return to.”* Back then, it seemed excessive. Now? Now it felt like fate.
She’d met Henry a year after uni. Fell hard. Moved in together. He’d insisted she live with him—*”A man should bring a woman into* his *home.”* Emma rented out her flat, splitting the income between shared expenses and savings.
Then came the wedding. Gift money went into renovating *his* place. Mum had fretted—*why invest in a home that wasn’t hers?* But Emma brushed it off. *”I live here now.”*
Then the distance started. Henry grew colder, distant, working late. Then, like flipping a switch, he’d return to sweet, doting Henry—flowers, compliments, talks of a countryside escape, barbecues, future children. He nudged: *”Your flat’s just a one-bed. We’ll buy something later. Right now, we need that retreat.”*
She’d nearly agreed. Wanted to make him happy. Even visited an estate agent last Saturday, bought a cake on the way home. Then she’d walked in and heard *everything.*
Husband and mother-in-law, divvying up her life. Plotting to leave her with nothing.
The tears wouldn’t come. Only cold fury.
That night, Emma packed and left. Her parents stood by her. Mum just held her, wordless.
Back in her little flat, she traced the walls, gazed out the window, then whispered to the room:
“You and I aren’t splitting up. You’re the only stable thing I’ve got left.”
Because in this world, stability was worth its weight in gold.
And right now, these walls—and Mum’s words—were all she trusted.
