No Country Cottage for You!
Emily had barely turned the key in the lock when she sensed something was off. The flat wasn’t empty. Voices drifted from the kitchen—one male, the other older, unmistakably female. Her mother-in-law had dropped by unannounced. Emily grimaced. Their relationship was polite—on the surface—but laced with passive-aggressive remarks and unsolicited advice. She had no desire for a face-to-face chat. Better to slip out, take a stroll to the shops, and let the visit run its course.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she froze. There was something in the tone of her husband’s conversation that set alarm bells ringing. She listened—and what she heard left her numb.
“Don’t worry, Em will come around to the cottage idea,” Oliver said smoothly.
“Just make sure it’s in your name,” her mother-in-law added. Emily’s eyebrows shot up. Seriously?
“I’ll figure out how to persuade her. Even if I can’t, we’ll buy it together eventually—split the assets. But her flat stays hers if we divorce? That’s not fair. We’ve lived at mine for two years—I should get something too.”
Emily went cold. Divorce?
“Absolutely,” her mother-in-law agreed. “You and Sophie could upgrade after. How’s that going, by the way?”
Sophie? Who the hell was Sophie?
“Fine. She’s pushing me to file sooner, but I told her we need to wait. Once the cottage is sorted, I’ll leave Emily. I’ll convince her to move the money to my account—say it’s safer. She’s gullible like that.”
Emily clutched the wall. Her ears rang. Memories flashed—their first date, the recent trip to the estate agent where she’d planned a “surprise,” putting her flat up for sale to fund that dream cottage. The cake she’d picked up on the way home sat untouched in its bag.
Mum had been right. Never sell. The flat was her safety net.
Without a word, Emily marched to the bedroom, yanked out a suitcase, and started packing. A minute later, Oliver appeared in the doorway.
“Emily? You’re back? What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Her voice trembled. “Trying to steal my flat, were you? Wanted it in your name? Tough luck! I paid for the renovations—every receipt’s digital. And everything we bought together? We’ll split it. Consider the free ride over.”
Her mother-in-law, catching the tone, vanished. Oliver stumbled over denials, but it was too late.
Then Emily remembered it all.
At twenty, her parents had gifted her a one-bed flat. “This is your anchor,” her mum had said. “Never sell. Always have somewhere to land.” Back then, it felt excessive. Now? Every word sounded prophetic.
She’d met Oliver a year after uni. Fell hard. Moved in together. He’d insisted she live at his place—”a man should provide the home.” She’d rented out her flat, splitting the income between bills and savings.
Then came the wedding. Guest gifts funded renovations at Oliver’s. Mum fretted—”Why invest in a place that isn’t yours?” Emily shrugged. “I live here now.”
Then, the shift. Oliver grew distant, snappy, always working late. Then—click—back to sweet, doting. Flowers. Compliments. And cottage talk—fresh air, barbecues, future kids. He nudged: “Your flat’s tiny. We’ll buy bigger later, but we need the cottage now.”
She’d nearly caved. Wanted to make him happy. Even visited the estate agent last Saturday, bought that cake. Then came home to the truth.
Her husband and his mother had already divided her assets. Planned to swindle her. Take her money, then—exit stage left.
No tears came. Just cold, hard betrayal.
That night, Emily left. Her parents didn’t ask questions—just hugged her tight.
Back in her little flat, she trailed fingers over the walls, gazed out the window, then perched on the sill and whispered:
“You’re the one thing I won’t divorce. You’re my constant. And in this world, that’s worth its weight in gold.”
Because right now, the only truths she trusted were her mum’s words and these four walls.
