**Diary Entry 12th November**
The door slammed shut behind me, the voice of my mother-in-law, Margaret Hartwell, sharp as a knife. There was no grief in it, only the metallic ring of long-awaited triumph.
I stood on the porch in nothing but an old dressing gowna thin silk thing, the last gift from James, utterly useless against the November chill. The wind cut through me like a blade, raising gooseflesh on my bare skin.
*Where do I go now?* My own voice sounded weak, unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else.
Behind Margarets shoulder, my sister-in-law, Charlotte, peered out like a spiteful ghost, lips twisted in a smirk.
“Back where you came from, *Miss Wilkins*,” she sneered. “Your little village, your humble roots. Always so proud of them, werent you? Time to crawl back.”
They refused to use my first nameonly my maiden name. As if I were a mistake in the ledger, a smudge to be wiped clean.
“But this was Jamess home too,” I whispered. “My thingseverything I had left of him”
Margaret took a step forward, her perfectly maintained facade hardening into something cruel.
“This house is *mine*. Always has been. My son made a mistake bringing you here. But James is gone. So his mistake is gone too. You are nothing.”
She said it so casually, like she was discussing the weather. As if the five years of our marriage had been nothing but an inconvenience.
Charlotte added, delight dripping from her words, “Living off us all these years, wearing our family jewels. Thought the fairy tale would last forever? Well, your carriages turned back into a pumpkin.”
I stared at their faces and saw no griefonly greed and drunken relief. As if their sons and brothers death were merely paperwork standing between them and my exile.
Theyd been waiting for this moment. For me to leave, broken and humiliated.
I didnt move, trying to grasp at reality as it slipped away.
“At least let me gather my thingsgive me an hour.”
“You wont get a minute,” Margaret snapped. “Your things? Well burn them. We dont want reminders of you.”
The heavy oak door thudded shut in my face. The lock clicked like a gunshot.
I was alone. Barefoot on the icy porch steps of their prestigious estate, staring down their pristine streetneat, uniform, lifeless.
They had thrown me out like a stray dog.
But when the first gust of wind bit into my bones, something shifted inside me. The humiliation didnt break meit crystallised into cold, clear purpose.
I didnt know how. I didnt know when. But I knew one thing for certain.
I would come back to this street.
And the next time, *they* would be the ones locked outside.
The first steps were agony. The gravel road tore into my bare feet, leaving bloody scrapes. Every passing car felt like a brand*There she is, the madwoman in a dressing gown.*
When I reached the security booth, Peter, the guard whod always smiled when raising the barrier for me, refused to meet my eyes.
“Peter, pleasecall me a taxi. Ive no phone.”
He shook his head. “Mrs. Hartwells orders. Im to escort you off the premises.”
“But”
“Rules are rules, Miss Wilkins.” His voice was stiff. “Ive a family to feed.”
The gate clicked open. Beyond it, an empty country road.
The next six months were a blur of despair. I returned to my parents in the village, working at the post office, sorting letters for strangers while pitying glances followed me.
I tried to fight. Hired a local solicitor with my last savings. He could only shrug.
“The house is in Margarets name. The car belongs to Charlotte. Jamess accounts are empty. Legally, youre entitled to nothing.”
Then, one evening, a call from an unknown number.
“Emily Wilkins?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Jonathan Wright. Im a solicitor in London. Ive been handling the estate of your great-aunt, Beatrice Harrington. It took some effort to track you down.”
I barely remembered hera stern old woman Id met once as a child. The black sheep of the family, whod left for the city and made her fortune, cutting all ties.
Shed told me one thing: *”Never let anyone decide who you are. Especially not family.”*
“Shes left you everything.”
I scoffed. “And how much is *everything*?”
“Shares in multiple companies, properties abroad, bank holdings. To put it simply, Miss Wilkinsyou are now one of the wealthiest women in the country.”
Beatrice had secretly kept tabs on me. In her will, shed written: *”I see myself in her. Shell have the protection I never did.”*
The world tilted beneath me. Jonathan prattled on about paperwork, but only one thought pounded in my skull:
“Tell mecould I buy a street with this?”
A pause. “A street?”
“In the literal sense. Every house.”
A month later, I sat in Jonathans London office. The old dressing gown had been replaced by a tailored Armani suit.
“The plans simple,” he said, gesturing to the estate map. “We start with the neighbours. Double the market rate. No negotiations. Anonymous.”
And I waited.
Within a week, the first neighbours were gone. Then the next. Panic set in.
At first, Margaret and Charlotte gloated. But as the street emptied, their smugness soured. Their perfect world was crumbling.
Then Charlotte called.
“Emily? Heard youre working at the post office now? Pathetic.”
I glanced at the penthouse view outside my window.
“Saving up, Lottie.”
She hissed. “Some mad billionaires buying up the whole street. Rumour is, theyll bulldoze it for a shopping centre. You realise what that means? Our house will be worthless! This is *your* faultyou cursed us!”
I signalled Jonathan. He nodded.
“Youre right, Lottie,” I said calmly. “It *is* my fault. Because *Im* buying your street. And no, it wont be a shopping centre.”
“Thenwhat?”
“A dog shelter, perhaps. Right under your windows.”
The next day, construction crews arrived, erecting towering concrete pillars around their house. Margaret and Charlotte watched from their windows, their home encircled like a fortress under siege.
Then, I came in person.
Margaret answered the door, trembling. “What do you want, Emily?”
“To talk.”
“We wont sell!” Charlotte shrieked.
I smiled as workers unfurled giant banners along the pillars. Each one read the same:
*”THANK YOU FOR THROWING ME OUT IN MY DRESSING GOWN. NOW THIS STREET IS MINE.”*
Charlotte gasped. Margaret went ashen.
“Youre a *monster*,” she spat.
“No,” I said. “Im your reflection. And about the construction? Ive changed my mind about the shelter. A waste incinerator, perhaps. Eco-friendly, but the *smell*”
“Wait!” Margarets voice cracked. “Name your price!”
“Ill offer market value. Not a penny more. You have twenty-four hours.”
They signed in three.
I watched their removal van disappear down the drive. When it was gone, I tore down one of the banners. The past belonged in the past.
A year later, *Beatrices Garden* openedan innovation hub for young scientists. Named for the woman whod given me a second chance.
The lesson? You can build something real. Not revengejustice.
**Epilogue**
Five years on, *Beatrices Garden* ranks among Europes top tech parks.
Then, reviewing maintenance reports, I spotted a familiar name. *Charlotte Hartwell.* Listed as a cleaner. Security footage confirmed itthere she was, in a grey uniform, wiping down the windows of *my* building.
She worked for me now. Unknowingly. The irony was sharper than revenge.
Margaret fared worse. The village solicitor calledshed tried to contest the sale. Lost. Now in a council care home, penniless, visited monthly by a resentful Charlotte.
I closed my laptop. Snow fell outside. I felt no triumph. They simply ceased to matter.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
But the real satisfaction? Moving on so completely, you forget it was ever on the menu.
They remain in the past, gnawing on the scraps of their hate. Alone.
