**The Gold Beneath the Floorboards**
My husband left me with our child in his crumbling, half-derelict cottage. He had no clue that a secret room full of gold lay hidden beneath the floor.
You seriously think this place is fit for a child? I eyed the sagging walls, held together by sheer luck and rusted nails.
Emily, dont be dramatic, James said flatly, tossing the last bag onto the creaky porch. Im giving you the whole house and the land. I couldve just turfed you out onto the street. His tone dripped with the irritation of a man forced to endure an inconvenient errand.
I stared at the papers in my hands. This cottage on the outskirts of the villageinherited from his grandfatheronly mattered now that he wanted rid of us. Ten years of marriage ended not with tears, but with a business transaction. A clean break, as he called it.
Liam, my nine-year-old, clutched his threadbare teddy bearthe only toy hed grabbed when his father announced we were leaving. His eyes held the quiet confusion of a child whose world had flipped upside down without explanation.
Sign here, James said, handing me a pen with the same indifference as someone settling a restaurant bill. No alimony, no claims. The house is yours.
I signed. Not because it was fair, but because the London flat belonged to his parents, and legally, I had no right to it. What little alimony hed have paid wouldnt have covered the bus fare.
Good luck, he tossed over his shoulder as he slid into his car. Liam flinched, as if about to speak, but the door slammed shut before he could.
Well be alright, Mum, Liam said as the car vanished down the lane, kicking up dust. Well figure it out.
The cottage welcomed us with groaning floorboards, damp walls, and cobwebs in every corner. Gaps in the floor let in the cold, and the window frames were warped beyond repair. Liam squeezed my hand, and I knew there was no going back.
The first month was survival mode. I kept my remote graphic design job, though the Wi-Fi cut out more often than not. Liam started at the village school, wobbling off each morning on a second-hand bike wed bought from a neighbour.
I learned to patch roofs, rewire sockets, and prop up sagging floorboardsmostly with the help of a handyman paid from my dwindling savings. My once-manicured hands turned rough and calloused. Still, every night, after Liam fell asleep, Id step outside and stare at the stars, which here seemed close enough to touch.
Dont give up, love, Mrs. Wilkins told me one afternoon after a pipe burst, leaving me in tears. This land rewards the stubborn. And you, my dear, are stubborn as they come.
There was truth in her words. Liam changedgrowing stronger, laughing more, his eyes bright with a new curiosity. He made friends, babbling about tadpoles in the pond and helping old Mr. Dawson feed his chickens.
A year passed. The cottage slowly transformedfresh paint, a new roof (thanks to Rob, a builder neighbour who traded labour for homemade jam), and even a small vegetable patch. Life was hard, but it was ours.
Then came the storm. Liam was away on a school trip, and I finally tackled the cellar, dreaming of turning it into a workshop for the odd tourist passing through.
The cellar was larger than Id thought. My torchlight revealed dusty shelves, broken jars, and boxes of junk. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting wood. I cleared space, tossing what was uselessuntil I moved an old dresser and found a door.
It was nearly invisible, painted the same as the wall, hinges hidden. I yanked the rusted handle, and with a groan, it opened.
Inside: a narrow passage. And at the end, a wooden chest, banded with tarnished metal.
What on earth? I knelt, heaving the lid open.
The torchlight glinted off gold. Coins. Jewellery. Bars.
My heart hammered so hard I nearly toppled over. A coin sat heavy in my palm, cold and stamped with the profile of some long-dead monarch.
This cant be real, I whispered.
Had James known? Impossible. Hed never have handed over the house if hed suspected.
Shaking, I covered the chest and hurried upstairs, triple-checking the locks before calling Sarahmy uni friend, now a property lawyer.
Sarah, you wont believe this, I blurted. I need you. Now.
Emily? Whats wrong?
Justcome. Please.
For two days, I jumped at every sound. Liam eyed me warily.
Mum, are you ill? he asked at dinner when I absentmindedly salted his soup twice.
Just tired, I lied, ruffling his hair.
Sarah arrived on Saturday, crisp in a blazer despite the weekend. After my rushed explanation, she raised an eyebrow.
Either youve cracked from rural isolation, or youve struck literal gold. Show me.
In the cellar, her torch beam hit the coins. She whistled.
Bloody hell. These are genuine. And by the look of them, 19th-century mint. Emily, this is a fortune.
What do I do?
She pulled out her phone, scrolling through legal jargon. Under the Treasure Act, if its not of significant cultural value, its yours. If it is, youll get half the market value. Either way, you have to declare it.
On Monday, we filed the paperwork. That night, I barely sleptwhat if they took it all?
The valuation committeea stern historian, a silent appraiser, and a bloke from the county museumpored over the hoard, muttering and scribbling notes.
Finally, the historian adjusted her glasses. A typical cache from a well-off family of the late 1800s. Likely hidden during hard times. Some pieces are collectible, but nothing of major historical interest. She handed me a certificate. Its legally yours.
After they left, Sarah hugged me. Congratulations. Now lets talk investments.
I looked at my cracked hands, my patched jeans, and laughed in disbelief.
Months passed in a blur. By day, I was just another village mum. By evening, Sarah and I strategisedselling coins discreetly through dealers in London and Edinburgh.
Got a contact in the British Museum, Sarah said one night. Discreet. Knows his stuff.
The dealer nearly dropped his monocle. These in this condition? At auction, theyll fetch ten times the gold value.
When the bank balance grew, I bought a new housenot a mansion, just a solid, warm home with a garden and a proper studio.
Liam gaped at the front door as the estate agent handed me the keys. This is really ours? Forever?
Yes, love. I squeezed him, my throat tight. And I was thinking a little farm. Remember how you loved Mrs. Wilkins goats?
His face lit up.
Soon, we had land, goats, chickens, and a thriving veg patch. Liam adored itfeeding the animals, showing off his farm to friends.
I invested wiselyland, local businesses, a trust fund for Liam, even a charity for single mums like Id been. No flashy cars or designer clothes. Just security.
Then, one autumn day, a familiar car pulled up. James.
He looked roughhaggard, twitchy. Heard rumours, he said without greeting. About gold. In my grandfathers house. And this place He gestured at our home.
And? I crossed my arms.
Thats my familys money! You owe me!
I almost laughed. You signed the house over. Fair and square. Ive paid the taxes, done the paperwork. Its mine.
Well see about that, he snarled.
Problem, Em? Robs voice rumbled from the garden. He and Mr. Dawson ambled over, arms crossed.
James faltered. This isnt over.
Yes, I said softly. It is.
That evening, Liam and I sat on the porch under a sky full of stars.
Mum, he said, leaning into me, I always knew wed be okay.
How?
Cause youre tough. Tougher than anyone.
I buried my face in his hair, breathing in the scent of shampoo and summer air.
The money was life-changing. But thismy boy, safe and happywas the real treasure.
**Ten Years Later**
Liams now at agricultural college, broad-shouldered and grinning, charming the village girls when he visits.
Our little farms growngoats, bees, a thriving veg business. I employ half the village, including Rob and Mr. Dawson.
Last winter, when the village school roof caved in, Liam turned to me. We should help.
We paid for the repairs
