“Vacate the flatI’m getting married and we’ll live here,” declared her husband’s daughter from his first marriage.
“Mrs. Whitmore, you forgot to sign your holiday request form. HR needs it by lunch,” said a young colleague.
Lifting her head from the computer, Mrs. Whitmore smiled. “Thank you, Emily. Ill pop over now.”
She set her work aside, heading to HR while musing about her upcoming holiday. She fancied a seaside escape, but her husband, James, insisted on their cottagewhy waste money when nature was free? After eight years together, shed learned to relent on small things.
Back at her desk, she noticed several missed calls from James. Oddhe never rang during work. She dialled back.
“Grace, can you come home early?” His voice was tight.
“Has something happened?”
“Victorias here. Says she needs to talk.”
VictoriaJamess daughter from his first marriage. Twenty-seven, living in another city, rarely visiting. Usually when she needed money.
“Ill try for six,” Grace said.
She left work early. The three-bedroom flat in a quiet London suburb had been her parents. When she married James, she hadnt thought of prenups or legalities. Love and trust had been enough.
Keys in hand, she heard voices insideVictoria chattering animatedly, James murmuring agreement. Grace slipped off her shoes, entering the lounge.
Victoria sat on the sofa in an elegant dress, a young man in an expensive suit beside her. Champagne glistened on the table.
“Ah, Gracefinally,” Victoria said, eyeing her. “Meet Edward, my fiancé.”
Grace shook his hand. “Pleasure.”
“Sit,” James gestured. “Victoria has something important to discuss.”
Grace tensed. Something was off.
“Vacate the flat. Im getting married, and were moving in,” Victoria announced, no preamble.
Grace stared. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Edward and I need a place. This one will do.”
“Victoria, this is Graces flat,” James said weakly.
“Dad, youve been on the lease eight years. Legally, youve a claim. And Im your only childyour heir.”
Graces face drained. “James, what is this?”
He fidgeted, avoiding her eyes. “Grace shes not entirely wrong. Maybe we should”
“Discuss *what*?” Grace stood. “This is *my* flat. My parents bought it. I grew up here.”
“But Dad has rights,” Victoria said, producing papers. “Ive consulted a solicitor. Eight years of cohabitation, shared billsa court might grant him half.”
“Youre mad.” Grace turned to James. “Say something!”
“Grace, lets be reasonable. Victorias youngshe needs stability. We could rent somewhere smaller.”
Grace reeled. The man shed trusted for eight years was calmly discussing evicting her from her own home.
“Mr. Whitmore, its the sensible choice,” Edward cut in. “A young couple needs space. Two people dont need three bedrooms.”
“And who are *you* to decide what we need?” Grace kept her voice steady, though fury simmered.
“Victorias future husband. Practically family.”
“Youre *no* family of mine.”
“Grace, dont be rude,” Victoria snapped. “Edwards family owns a construction firm. His fathers well-off.”
“Lovely. Let *him* buy you a flat.”
“Why buy when we can have this?” Victoria shrugged. “Dad, you *do* want me happy?”
“Of course, love.”
“Then talk sense into her. Its your flat too.”
Grace pulled out her phone.
“What are you doing?” James asked sharply.
“Calling *my* solicitor. And I suggest you all leave.”
“Grace, dont” He reached for her, but she stepped back.
“Mr. Harrison? Grace Whitmore. I need urgent advice. Tomorrow morning? Thank you.”
Hanging up, she faced them. “Now, please go. I need to think.”
“This is *my* home too,” James said.
“No. Its *mine*. Youre here by *my* goodwill.”
“Dad has every right to stay,” Victoria said, standing. “And so do I, as his guest.”
“Victoria, leave. Or Ill call the police.”
“How *dare* you!” Victoria flushed. “Dad, youll tolerate this?”
James wavered, torn between them.
“Grace, dont be like this”
“Nothing *to* discuss. Im going to a friends. When I return, I expect your daughter *gone*.”
Grace grabbed her bag and left. Her hands shook in the lift. *Eight years*. And hed betray her for his daughters whims.
Her friend Louise lived nearby. One look at Graces face, and she knew. “Come in. Talk.”
Over tea, Grace explained. Louise listened, shaking her head.
“I *told* you to get a prenup. But no*love, trust*”
“Louise, *please*.”
“Sorry. What now?”
“Solicitor tomorrow. See where I stand.”
“And James?”
Grace hesitated. Could she stay with a man whod choose his daughter over her?
“Ill divorce him.”
“Wherell he go? Hes got no property.”
“His problem. He can live with *her*.”
Her phone rangJames. She declined.
“Not talking?”
“No. His choice is made.”
She stayed at Louises. Next morning, she went straight to the solicitor. Mr. Harrison, grey-haired and calm, listened.
“Mrs. Whitmore, dont fret. The flat was yours pre-marriage?”
“Yes. Inherited two years before I met James.”
“Then its yours. James has no claim.”
“But hes on the lease”
“That grants no ownership. At most, hed get a month or two to find lodging post-divorce.”
“And Victorias nonsense about shared assets?”
“Rubbish. Marital assets are acquired *during* marriage. Your flat isnt included.”
Grace exhaled. “So they cant evict me?”
“Never. If they harass you, report it. Its coercion.”
Afterward, she went to work. James called repeatedly. She ignored him, needing space to think.
That evening, she returned home. James sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. No Victoria, thank God.
“Grace, finally. I was worried.”
“Wheres your daughter?”
“Gone to Edwards. Grace, we should talk.”
“About *what*? You sitting silent while she demanded *my* flat?”
“I was stunned. Never expected this from her.”
“Really? Shed *consulted a solicitor*. This wasnt spur-of-the-moment.”
“I didnt know, I swear.”
Grace studied himolder, wearier. When theyd met, hed been lively, attentive. Routine had dulled that.
“James, be honest. Did you *ever* consider backing me? Or was she always priority?”
He stared into his tea.
“Grace, shes my *daughter*. My only child.”
“And Im *what*? Eight years together.”
“You matter. But Victoria”
“Understood.” Grace stood. “Ill file for divorce.”
“Grace, wait!”
“No. Ive seen the solicitor. The flats *mine*. Youve a month to leave.”
“Grace, lets fix this”
“Fix *what*? Your daughter marched in and demanded *my home*. You said *nothing*. Whats left to fix?”
Her phone rangunknown number.
“Grace Whitmore?”
“Speaking.”
“Margaret CrawleyEdwards mother. I wanted to apologise for yesterday. My son told me everything. Appalling behaviour.”
Grace blinked. “Thats kind, but”
“Meet me. We must discuss Victoria.”
“Why?”
“Please. Its vital.”
Curious, Grace agreed. Next day, in a cosy café, an elegant woman in her sixties awaited her.
“Thank you for coming,” Margaret said. “Coffees ordered.”
“Whats this about?”
“My sons smittenfirst serious romance. And this Victoria shes manipulating him.”
“How?”
“She claims shes pregnant, demands a rushed wedding. When Edward asked for time, she said *she* had a flat.”
“*My* flat.”
“Precisely. Grace, Ive looked into her. No job, hops between men. A gold-digger.”
“Your proposal?”
“We work together. You keep your flat; Ill wake Edward up.”
“The pregnancy?”
“Doubt its real. But if so, a paternity test settles it.”
Grace pondered. An odd turn.
“Alright. What do I do?”
“Just hold firm. Ill handle my end.”
Returning home, Grace found Victoria there, rifling through papers.
“What are *you* doing here?”
“Dad gave me keys. Scouting *my* future home.”
“Leave. Now.”
“Make me. Dad said I could stay.”
Grace dialled 999.
“Police? A trespasser in my flat refuses to leave.”
Victoria paled. “*What*?”
“Defending my property.”
“Im your *husbands daughter*!”
“*Ex*-husband. Waiting for the police?”
Victoria fled, slamming the door. Grace cancelled the call, sinking onto the sofa. Exhausted.
That evening, James packed a bag.
“Grace, Ill stay with a friend.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Youre really divorcing me?”
“Yes.”
“Shame. We couldve”
“No, James. You chose your daughter over us. Theres no *us* left.”
He left. The flat was quiet, emptybut finally *peaceful*.
A week later, Margaret called.
“Gracenews. Victorias *not* pregnant. Edward insisted on a test. Theyve split. Hes off to Europe for work.”
“Not surprised.”
“These girls never linger. Take care.”
The divorce was swift. James didnt contest the flat, only apologised. Grace forgavebut there was no going back.
At work, a new colleague arrivedNicholas, a soft-spoken programmer from Manchester. He fixed her computer once, then asked her for coffee.
“Youre married?” he asked bluntly.
“Was. Recently divorced.”
“If I maywhy?”
Grace smirked. “Long story. Lets say we wanted different things.”
“I understand. Divorced five years ago myself.”
They began meetingwalks, films, talks. Nicholas was witty, well-read.
One day, in the park, they bumped into James and Victoria. James flushed; Victoria glared.
“Grace.”
“James.”
“Youre well?”
“Very. This is Nicholas.”
They shook hands. Victoria tugged Jamess sleeve.
“Dad, *come on*.”
They left. Nicholas asked, “Your ex?”
“Yes.”
“And the daughter who wanted your flat?”
Grace frowned. “Howd you know?”
“Louise mentioned it. Were in the same department.”
“Ah. She does gossip.”
“Speaks highly of you. Says you did the right thing.”
“I hope so.”
Nicholas took her hand.
“You know Im glad you divorced.”
“Why?”
“Or wed never have met.”
Grace smiled. Life took strange turns. What seemed disaster often led somewhere better.
That night, she studied old photos of James. Eight yearssome good times. But when tested, hed failed. *She* hadnt. Shed stood her ground.
Her phone buzzedNicholas. *”Thank you for today. Tomorrow?”*
She typed back: *”Absolutely.”*
Life went on.
