No Country Getaway!
Emma had just slid the key into the lock when she sensed something was off. The flat wasn’t empty. Voices drifted from the kitchen—one deep and male, the other sharp, older. Her mother-in-law had dropped by unannounced. Emma grimaced. Their relationship was polite but strained, full of veiled jabs and unsolicited advice. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation. A quick trip to the shops would do—let the woman stay and leave on her own.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she froze. The tone of her husband’s conversation with his mother set off alarm bells. She listened—and what she heard left her numb.
“Don’t worry, Em will come round to the country house idea,” James said calmly.
“Just make sure it’s in your name,” his mother chimed in. Emma’s brows shot up. Seriously?
“Not sure how to convince her, but I’ll figure it out. Even if it doesn’t work, we’ll buy it together—split it in the divorce. Her flat would stay hers, though—that’s bollocks. We’ve lived at mine for two years. I deserve a cut.”
Emma’s blood ran cold. Divorce?
“Exactly. You and Sophie could upgrade after. How’s it going with her, anyway?”
Who the hell was Sophie?
“Fine. She’s pushing me to file sooner, but I told her—wait till the house is sorted. Once it’s done, I’ll end things. I’ll tell Emma it’s safer keeping the money in my account—she’s gullible enough to believe me.”
Emma gripped the wall, ears ringing. Memories flashed—their first date, their wedding, even the estate agent’s office earlier that day, where she’d planned to list her flat as a “surprise” for their country home. And the cake she’d picked up on the way back still sat in its bag.
Mum had been right. Never sell. The flat was her safety net.
Silently, Emma marched to the bedroom, yanked out a suitcase, and began packing. Seconds later, James appeared in the doorway.
“Em? You’re back? What’re you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Her voice shook. “Fancy getting your hands on my flat, do you? Wanted it in your name, yeah? Tough luck! And I paid for the renovations—I’ve got the receipts! We’ll split everything we bought. Consider the free ride over.”
His mother, hearing her tone, scurried out. James stammered denials, but it was too late.
Then it all clicked.
At twenty, her parents had gifted her the one-bed flat. “This is your anchor,” Mum had said. “Never sell it. Always have a place to land.” Back then, it felt excessive. Now? Prophetic.
She’d met James a year after uni. Fell hard. Moved in together. He insisted she live at his place—”a man should bring a woman into his home.” She rented out her flat, splitting the income between shared costs and savings.
Then came the wedding. Gift money went into renovating his flat. Mum fretted—why invest in someone else’s property? Emma waved her off. “I live here too.”
Then, the shift. James grew distant, irritable, late. Then, like flipping a switch, he’d return—flowers, compliments, whispers of a countryside escape, BBQs, future kids. The pressure was subtle: “Your flat’s tiny. We’ll buy bigger later, but now—we need that getaway.”
She’d nearly agreed. Wanted to make him happy. Even visited the estate agent that weekend, bought the cake. Then she came home and overheard the truth.
Her husband and his mother had already divided her assets, schemed to leave her penniless. Dragged her money in, then planned to cut her loose.
No tears came. Only icy betrayal.
That night, Emma left. Her parents rallied around her. Mum just held her, silent, steady.
Back in her one-bed, she trailed a hand along the walls, gazed out the window, then perched on the sill and whispered,
“You and I aren’t splitting up. You’re the only solid thing I’ve got left. And in this world, solid’s worth its weight in gold.”
Because now, the only things she trusted were her mum’s words and these four walls.
