“What do you mean, give up my share?” Emma’s voice trembled. “Margaret, that’s my husband’s inheritance!”
“My son’s inheritance,” Margaret corrected, standing tall. “Not yours. You’re just passing through. He’s mine, not yours.”
“Passing through?” Emma felt heat rise from her chest to her throat. “We’re married! Eight years together!”
“Eight years is nothing,” Margaret scoffed. “My first marriage lasted twenty-three years before it ended. Don’t act like you’re his forever wife.”
Emma stood in the kitchen, stunned. Half an hour ago, she’d been making shepherd’s pie for the family, relieved that Margaret had finally agreed to discuss the flat’s division after her father-in-law’s passing. Now this.
“Margaret, let’s talk calmly,” Emma tried to steady herself. “Charles left the flat to James. By law, half of it is mine as his wife.”
“Nothing is yours!” Margaret raised her voice. “My husband bought this flat in seventy-five. I’ve lived here forty-eight years—raised children, looked after grandchildren! And who are you? Came from some country town, charmed my son, and now you’re making demands?”
“I’m not from the country—I’m from Norwich,” Emma said quietly. “And I didn’t charm anyone. James and I love each other.”
“Love?” Margaret snorted. “At your age? You’re thirty-eight, your clock’s ticking. You just want a foothold in London.”
James walked in then, carrying grocery bags. He tensed at the sight of his wife and mother, both red-faced.
“What’s going on?” he asked, setting the bags down.
“Your mum wants me to give up my share of the flat,” Emma said evenly.
James looked from his mother to his wife. “Mum, we agreed we’d all live together. Why bring this up now?”
“Sweetheart,” Margaret’s tone turned sweet, “I’m thinking of your future. What if something happens? You divorce, and she walks away with half?”
“Mum, stop. We’re not getting divorced.”
“Oh, no one *plans* to,” Margaret mocked. “I didn’t plan to divorce your father either, but life’s unpredictable.”
Emma stayed silent, watching James fidget like a schoolboy called to the board unprepared.
“Mum, why do this?” he finally said. “Emma’s family.”
“Family?” Margaret repeated. “Then where are the children? Eight years, and nothing. Maybe she can’t have any?”
Emma’s cheeks burned. Infertility was her deepest wound. They’d tried everything—doctors, treatments—but nothing had worked.
“That’s private,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Private?” Margaret shook her head. “You marry a barren woman, and I’m supposed to stay quiet? I want grandchildren. I’m seventy—how long should I wait?”
“Mum, enough!” James raised his voice. “This is cruel.”
“The truth’s cruel? Maybe she should divorce you and find someone simpler.”
Emma had heard enough. “I’m leaving,” she said, untying her apron.
She packed a bag in the bedroom, hands trembling. James followed.
“Emma, wait—don’t take it to heart. Mum’s just worried.”
“Worried?” Emma turned. “She’s *demanding* I give up my share! Like I’m some gold-digger!”
“She didn’t demand, she just asked—”
“Ask? Did you hear her? She’s practically throwing me out!”
James sat on the bed, rubbing his temples. “She’s scared of ending up homeless. This flat’s her whole life.”
“And I’m evicting her? It’s four bedrooms—there’s space for everyone!”
“I know. But she doesn’t trust paperwork. Thinks if we split, she’ll lose everything.”
Emma stared at him. “James, tell me honestly—whose side are you on?”
“Yours. You’re my wife.”
“Then why didn’t you defend me? Why let her say those things?”
Silence. She had her answer.
“I’m staying with Lily for a few days,” she said, zipping her bag.
“Don’t go. Let’s talk.”
“Talk about what? How best to surrender my rights?”
In the hallway, Margaret smirked. “Leaving? Good. Clear your head.”
Emma stopped. “Margaret, understand this—I don’t want your flat. I just need to know I have a home. That I won’t be kicked out over one argument.”
“You’ve got a home. In Norwich.”
“Strangers live there now.”
“Then find somewhere else.”
Emma stood on the landing, tears unnoticed. Eight years—cooking, cleaning, nursing Margaret through illness—and this was her reward.
At Lily’s flat, her friend frowned. “You look terrible. What happened?”
“Worse than terrible,” Emma said. “Can I stay?”
Over tea, she relayed everything. Lily shook her head.
“I warned you,” she said. “All those ‘jokes’ about your age, the hints about kids—she was laying groundwork. Proving you’re not a ‘real’ wife.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“You took her son’s attention. She’s used to being his priority.”
Lily poured more tea. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe you *should* give up your share.”
“Lily!”
“Hear me out. James won’t stand up to her. Do you really think he’ll change at forty-three?”
“But it’s unfair! I’m his *wife*!”
“Legally, yes. But if you push this, Margaret will poison your marriage. Whisper that you’re greedy, that a *loving* wife wouldn’t claim a thing. How long before he believes her?”
Emma swallowed. Lily was right.
“So what? Surrender and live on her mercy?”
“Or negotiate. Give up the share but secure lifetime occupancy—or a payout if you divorce.”
“Margaret would never agree.”
“She will. If you refuse, she risks losing half. Your way, she gets it all.”
The next day, Emma consulted a solicitor.
“Technically,” the woman said, “inheritances aren’t marital property. Even after eight years, the flat stays his. But you *can* claim improvements—renovations, furniture—paid from joint funds.”
Emma left, thoughtful. James greeted her anxiously.
“Thank God you’re back! I was worried.”
“Where’s your mum?”
“At a neighbour’s. We can talk.”
On the sofa, he took her hand. “I’m sorry. I was weak.”
“Do you *want* me to give up my share?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Mum’s scared. She’s old—terrified of losing her home.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re strong. You’d manage.”
Emma saw her choice: lose her marriage or her rights.
“Fine,” she said. “But with conditions. Guaranteed occupancy. Compensation for renovations if we divorce.”
James brightened. “Fair. I’ll talk to Mum.”
“No. *I* will. And it’s legally binding.”
That evening, Margaret reluctantly agreed—too eager to secure the flat.
A week later, papers were signed. Emma surrendered her claim but secured her home. Signing felt humiliating, but family mattered more.
Afterward, Margaret softened, even helping in the kitchen.
“See?” she said. “Now we can live peacefully.”
“Yes,” Emma replied. “Now I know my place.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re family—his beloved wife.”
“Family with no say.”
“But a roof over your head,” Margaret smiled. “That counts.”
Emma nodded, washing dishes. It *did* count. She’d traded dignity for security. Her voice here meant nothing—but she had a home. A husband who loved her, as much as his mother allowed.
It would have to be enough.
