*Diary Entry*
My husbands family threw me out onto the street in an old dressing gown. A year later, I bought their entire street and hung the same banner on every house.
“Close the door from the other side,” my mother-in-law Margarets voice sliced through the air, devoid of any sorrow, ringing with the metallic triumph of long-awaited victory.
I stood on the porch in nothing but that thin silk dressing gownDmitris last giftutterly useless against the biting November wind. It clawed at my bare skin, raising goosebumps like tiny graves.
“Where am I supposed to go?” My own voice sounded frail, cracked, like it belonged to someone else.
From behind Margarets shoulder, like some malevolent spirit, peered my sister-in-law, Charlotte. Her lips twisted in a smirk, dripping with disdain.
“Back where you came from, Wilson. To that little village of yours. Always so proud of your humble roots, werent you? Well, now you can crawl back to them.”
They refused to use my first name. Just my surname. Like I was a clerical error, a blot to be erased.
“But this was Dmitris home too my things are inside everything I had left of him”
Margaret took a step forward, her usually polished face hardening into something ruthless.
“The house is mine. Always has been. My son made a mistake bringing you here. But Dmitris gone now. And so are you. Youre nothing.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, like she was commenting on the weather. As if our five years of marriage had been nothing more than an unfortunate oversight.
Charlotte added gleefully, “Living off us all these years, wearing our family jewels. Thought the fairytale would last forever? Well, Cinderella, midnights come. The carriages a pumpkin now.”
I stared at their faces and saw only greed and drunken relief. As though Dmitris death hadnt been a lossjust an inconvenient formality standing between them and my expulsion.
Theyd been waiting. Waiting for me to leave broken, humiliated, freezing.
I didnt move, struggling to grasp a reality that kept slipping away.
“At least let me gather my thingsgive me an hour.”
“Youll get nothing,” Margaret snapped. “Your belongings? Well burn them. Or toss them. We dont want your rubbish. Especially not from someone like you.”
The heavy oak door slammed in my face. The click of the lock was a gunshot.
Alone. Barefoot on the icy porch tiles of their gated estate.
I looked down their pristine streetneat, soulless, lined with identical lawns and facades that had never accepted me.
Theyd tossed me out like a stray.
But as the first gust of wind bit deep into my bones, something inside me shifted. The humiliation didnt break me. It crystallised into something cold and sharp.
I didnt know how. I didnt know when. But I knew one thing for certain.
Id be back on this street.
And when I was, theyd be the ones closing the door behind them. For good.
The first steps were agony. Jagged gravel tore into my bare feet, leaving bloody trails. Every passing car felt like a branding iron. Look at herthe madwoman in a dressing gown.
The security guard, Peter, whod tipped his hat to me just yesterday, averted his eyes.
“Peter, please. Call me a taxi. I dont have my phone.”
He shook his head without looking up. “Mrs. Harrisons orders. Youre to leave immediately.”
“But I”
“Rules are rules, Mrs. Wilson. Ive got a family to feed.”
He opened the gate. I stepped through.
The next six months were a blur of despair. I returned to my parents village, working at the post office, sorting other peoples lives while neighbours whispered behind my back.
I fought. Hired a local solicitor. He spread his hands.
“House is in Margarets name. The cars Charlottes. Your husbands accounts are empty. Legally, youre entitled to nothing.”
Then the call came.
“Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes,” I answered dully.
“My name is James Whitmore. Im a solicitor in London. Ive been handling the estate of your great-aunt, Agnes Hartford. It took some effort to locate you.”
I barely remembered her. A stern old woman Id met once as a child. The familys black sheepshed left for the city and never looked back.
Shed said one thing to me: “Never let anyone decide who you are. Especially not family.”
“Shes left you everything.”
I laughed bitterly. “And whats everything?”
“Shares in industrial firms, property abroad, bank holdings. To put it simply, Mrs. Wilson, youre now one of the wealthiest women in the country.”
Agnes had quietly kept track of my life. Her will included a note: *”I see myself in her. Let her have what I never didprotection.”*
The ground fell away. The solicitor kept speaking, but all I could think was
“James is there enough to buy a street?”
Silence. Then
“A street? Literally?”
“Yes. Every house.”
A month later, I sat in his London office. No dressing gown nowjust a tailored Armani suit.
“We start with the neighbours,” he said, tapping the estate map. “Double market value. No negotiation. Anonymous.”
I waited. The first neighbours left within a week. The next, soon after. Panic spread.
Margaret and Charlotte sneered at first. But as the street emptied, their smugness faded. Their little world was crumbling.
Then Charlotte called.
“Wilson? Heard youre still licking envelopes at the post office?”
I gazed through my penthouse windows.
“Saving up, Charlie.”
“Well, some lunatics buying up our whole street! Rumour says its for a shopping centre. Our homes value will plummet! This is your faultyour rotten luck!”
I signalled James. He nodded.
“Youre right, Charlie,” I said calmly. “It is me. Im buying your street. And yes, Ill build something. Maybe a dog shelter. Right outside your window.”
By dawn, construction crews arrived, erecting concrete pillars around their house. Margaret and Charlotte watched from their windows as their home became a prison.
Then I came in person.
They answered the door instantly.
“What do you want, Eleanor?” Margarets voice shook.
“To talk.”
“We wont sell!” Charlotte shrieked.
I signalled the workers. Giant banners unfurled on every pillar:
*”THANKS FOR THROWING ME OUT IN MY DRESSING GOWN. NOW THE STREET IS MINE.”*
Charlotte gasped. Margaret went grey.
“Youre a monster,” she hissed.
“No,” I said. “Im your reflection. About the constructionIve changed my mind. Itll be a waste incinerator. Eco-friendly, but the smell”
“Wait!” Margarets voice was desperate. “How much?”
“Ill make you an offer. Market price. Not a penny more. Youve got twenty-four hours.”
They signed in three.
I watched their removal van disappear, then tore down one banner. The past belonged behind me.
A year later, *Agnes Park* openedan innovation hub for young scientists. Named for the woman whod given me a second chance.
Revenge? No. Justice.
*Epilogue*
Five years on, *Agnes Park* ranks among Europes top tech centres.
Reviewing maintenance reports, I spotted a familiar name. Charlotte. Listed as a cleaner. Security pulled the footage.
There she was. Grey uniform, weary face. Mopping floors in *my* building.
She worked for me nowunaware. A harsher irony than any revenge. I did nothing. She found her place herself.
Margaret fared worse. Our village solicitor called.
“Mrs. Wilson your former mother-in-law tried contesting the sale.”
She lost. Owed legal fees. Bailiffs seized everything. Now shes in a council home. Charlotte visits monthly.
I closed the file. Snow fell outside. No triumph. No thoughts of them. Theyd simply ceased to exist in my world.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
But the sweetest part? When youre so full of your new life, you no longer have the appetite for it.
You move on. They stay behind, gnawing at the scraps of their hatred. Alone.
