“No Country Cottage for You!”
Yvette had barely turned the key in the lock when she felt it—something was wrong. The flat wasn’t empty. Voices drifted from the kitchen—one deep, belonging to her husband, the other sharp and older. Her mother-in-law had dropped by unannounced. Yvette’s jaw tightened. Their relationship had always been cordial on the surface, laced with passive-aggressive barbs and unsolicited advice. She didn’t want the confrontation. Stepping back, she considered slipping out for a walk—let the old woman finish her tea and leave.
But then she froze. The tone of their conversation prickled her spine. She leaned in, and the words that reached her ears turned her blood to ice.
“Don’t worry, Yvette will come round to the cottage idea,” Darren said smoothly.
“Make sure it’s in your name,” his mother cut in. Yvette’s brows shot up. Seriously?
“I’ll figure out how to convince her. And if not, it doesn’t matter—we’ll buy it together, split it in the divorce. Her flat stays hers—that’s not fair. We’ve lived at mine for two years; I deserve something too.”
Divorce? Yvette’s fingers dug into the wallpaper.
“Of course you do,” the old woman sniffed. “You and Marie could upgrade after. How’s that going, by the way?”
Who the hell was Marie?
“It’s fine. She’s pushing me to file sooner, but I’ve told her—wait until the cottage is sorted. Once it’s done, I’ll end things. I’ll tell Yvette keeping the money in my account is safer, get her to transfer everything. She’s gullible like that.”
Yvette’s vision blurred. The walls hummed. Flashes of their life together—first dates, whispered promises, the estate agent’s office just this afternoon where she’d nearly listed her flat to surprise him with the cottage fund. The cake box in her bag, bought on a whim, suddenly felt like a cruel joke.
Her mother had warned her. Never sell. The flat was her safety net.
Wordlessly, she strode to the bedroom, yanked a suitcase from the wardrobe, and began stuffing clothes inside. Darren appeared in the doorway moments later.
“Yvette? You’re back early—what are you doing?”
Her hands shook. “What am I doing? Plotting to steal my flat, were you? Put the cottage in your name? Over my dead body. And that renovation I paid for? Every receipt’s saved digitally. Everything we bought together—we’ll split it, love. Consider your free ride over.”
His mother fled at the venom in her voice. Darren stammered, denied, twisted—but the game was up.
Then it all clicked.
At twenty, her parents had gifted her the one-bed flat. “This is your anchor,” her mother had said. “Never sell it. Always have a place to land.” It had felt excessive then. Now, it was prophecy.
She’d met Darren a year after uni. Fell hard. Moved into his place—”a man should bring his wife home,” he’d insisted. She rented out her flat, splitting the income between bills and savings.
Then the wedding. Guest money funded renovations at his place. Her mother fretted—why pour money into a home she didn’t own? Yvette waved her off. “I live here now.”
Then came the distance. His cold shoulders, late nights, sudden bursts of affection—flowers, whispers of country cottages, barbecues, future children. “Your flat’s too small,” he’d coaxed. “We’ll buy something bigger later, but first—the cottage.”
She’d almost agreed. Wanted to make him happy. Even visited the estate agent today, bought that stupid cake. Then she came home and heard the truth.
Her husband and his mother had been carving up her life. Plotting to drain her accounts, discard her.
No tears came. Just numbness. The hollow chill of betrayal.
That night, she left. Her parents welcomed her without questions, her mother’s silent embrace saying everything.
Back in her one-bed, Yvette trailed her fingers along the walls, gazed out the window, then slumped onto the sill.
“You and me, we’re forever,” she murmured. “You’re the only constant I’ve got left. And in this world, that’s worth more than gold.”
Because after today, she’d never trust anyone—except these walls and her mother’s ghost of a warning—ever again.
