David was in his office when the phone rang. His wife’s name flashed on the screen—unusual, as she rarely called during the day.
“Hello, Emma. Is everything alright? I’m a bit busy,” he said, glancing away from his computer.
“It’s happened,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “We’ve been kicked out. We’ve got nowhere to live!”
“What?!” David shot up from his chair. “Is it the flat? Fire? Burglary?”
“The flat’s fine… but we’re not allowed to stay anymore.”
“How? Who could possibly stop us from living in our own home?!”
“Who? Your mother!” Emma’s voice broke, thick with hurt and anger.
Years ago, they’d moved to London with their girls—Sophie was seven, little Isabelle just five. They started by renting, working endlessly. Then luck struck: Emma’s father inherited a flat from a distant relative.
“It’s yours,” the old man had said. “I’m retired; taxes don’t pinch me. The deeds stay in my name, but it’s your home.”
They renovated, furnished it, settled in. It felt like theirs—though legally, it wasn’t. Still, Emma couldn’t shake the unease.
“We’ve poured everything into this place, but it’s not in our names,” she’d remind David.
“Don’t worry. Mum and Dad wouldn’t throw us out. We’re family.”
But worse happened—they were thrown out. By family.
The trouble started after his father’s birthday party. They celebrated, and the next day, his mother announced,
“We’ve decided: Andrew, your cousin, will move in. He’s starting university, and halls are cramped. You’ve got space. And—” she added coolly, “the flat’s legally ours. We decide who lives there.”
Emma nearly choked. But David just nodded.
“No problem. There’s room.”
She bit her tongue. Not the time. But something inside her snapped.
Andrew moved in—like he owned the place. Left messes, swore, broke things. Then David’s parents visited, doting on their “grandson.” And the nitpicking began.
“Andrew’s shoes are filthy!” his mother scolded. “Why hasn’t his coat been washed? And where are the scones?”
She ruled like a sergeant, scrubbing, cooking, bossing. Then, bluntly to Emma:
“I don’t see how my son stays with someone like you. You should leave.”
“Where would I go? The girls have their own lives, rent’s sky-high—”
“Not my concern. Pack your things.”
When Emma refused, his mother hissed,
“I’ll explain to David. He’ll sign the divorce papers.”
Emma silently packed, tears streaming.
David rushed home the moment he found out.
“Mum, what is this?! You threw out my wife?!”
“She’s not needed here. And she drinks!”
“What?!”
“I heard bottles clinking in her bag. Hiding something? I won’t have that under my roof. The flat’s mine—my rules.”
“Mum, that was Andrew taking out the bins!”
“Don’t blame him! If she steps foot here again, don’t come crying.”
“Then I go with her.”
“Better. Andrew’s got a girlfriend now—needs the space.”
David clenched his fists.
“Fine. Two days.”
“Emma, don’t cry. We’ll move everything—James will help. We’ll find somewhere. Not what we dreamed of, but ours.”
Three days later, his mother returned with Sarah—lugging bags like they were off to war. Meat, tins, sacks of veg…
“They’ve gone?!” Sarah gaped.
“Empty… No cooker… Fridge… Furniture—”
“Put it on the balcony!”
“It’s raining! Mum, there’s not even a bed!”
Margaret dialled her son—no answer. The girls blocked her calls.
“Margaret, it’s Gran—” she pleaded to one voicemail, only to hear:
“Don’t call again!”
The flat held just a grimy old sofa. And a plastic tub in the bath—proof it was over.
Six months later, Emma cooked dinner in their new home. The phone rang—unknown number.
“David? It’s me… Mum… You never call. I’m sorry. Come back. Live here.”
“We are living. In our own home.”
“Yours? Why need another? You’ve got ours!”
“Yours is yours. Ours is ours.”
“And the girls? They’ve cut me off!”
“They want for nothing. We’re done with that flat—and you.”
David hung up. That chapter was closed. Some doors, once shut, stay shut.
**Lesson: A house isn’t a home when love leaves—but building your own? That’s freedom.**
