**Diary Entry 12th April**
The air was crisp with spring, the kind that feels fresh after a long winter. I sat on the balcony with a book when Oliver stepped out, looking far too determined for a Saturday morning.
Were selling your flat and moving in with my parents, he said again, as if repeating it would make it sound reasonable. Theyve sorted everythinga room upstairs, en suite. Itll be easier.
I set my book down slowly. Come again?
The flats outdated, the bills are steep. Mum says its the practical thing to do. Well put the money into savings.
*Whose* savings? I asked.
Ours, obviously. Mums always been good with finances.
I stood and walked to the railing, watching kids play in the courtyard below. I used to be one of them, visiting Gran during holidays.
So your mother decided what happens to *my* flat?
Dont twist it, Emily. Were talking sensibly.
Talking? Youve already decided.
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away.
Its logical. Why keep two homes? Mum and Dad need help as they age. This place is just a two-bed in a commuter town.
Its where I grew up, I said quietly. Gran left it to me because she knew Id care for it.
Sentiment doesnt pay bills. Mums rightweve got to think ahead.
Ahead for *whom*? Your mother?
His jaw tightened. Oliver never took criticism of his parents well, especially his mum. Margaret had raised him alone until she met Richard, and hed spent his life defending her.
Enough, Emily. The decisions made. Were meeting the estate agent Monday.
*Your* decision. Not mine.
Im the head of this family.
I laughedsharp, humorless. Head of the family? Really? I thought we were equals.
Equals dont cling to relics. Mum sold her flat when she married Dad, and theyre fine.
She sold a studio in Croydon and moved into his Surrey house. Bit different.
He reddened. Dont speak about my parents like that.
Im stating facts. And heres anotherIm *not* selling.
Well see, he spat, storming off.
I stayed on the balcony, the sun warming my face. I thought of Gran, whod worked her whole life as a nurse to buy this flat. *A woman should always have her own place, love,* shed say.
That evening, Oliver brought his parents for tea. Margaret swept in, eyeing the peeling wallpaper. This hasnt been touched in twenty years, she declared. Imagine the cost to modernise it!
Richard lingered quietly, as usual. I offered tea.
Earl Grey, no sugar, Margaret said. We mind our figures.
In the kitchen, Oliver hissed, Dont sulk. Theyre trying to help.
Help *themselves* to my home?
Its not like youll be homeless.
No, just trapped under *your* mothers thumb.
Back in the lounge, Margaret spread papers on the table. Emily, sit. Were discussing the sale.
There *is* no sale.
Her brows shot up. Oliver said you agreed.
Oliver *lied*.
Emily! Oliver snapped. We talked about this
*You* talked. I said *no*.
Margaret stiffened. Olivers my only son. I wont let some”
Some *what*? I cut in.
Some girl from god-knows-where dictate terms.
*Im* dictating? Youre the one demanding I sell my home!
Richard cleared his throat. Margaret, perhaps
Quiet, Richard! She turned back to me. Be reasonable. Our house has a garden, a pool. What more could you want?
Freedom, I said.
From *what*? Family?
From your *control*.
Her face flushed. I care about my sons future!
Or *yours*? Why do you need the money?
Silence. Oliver looked between us, lost.
Whats with the accusations? he blustered. Youre out of line!
Its a fair question. If theyre so well-off, why take *my* flat?
Its *family* money! Margaret cried.
No, I said firmly. Its *mine*.
Selfish! she spat. Oliver, do you see what you married?
Mum, calm down
I raised you, and *this* is my thanks?
Enough, I said. Leave.
Oliver gaped. You cant throw them out!
Watch me. Goodbye, Margaret. Richard.
She stood, trembling. Oliver, were leaving. If your wife wont value family, neither should you.
He wavered. Emily, apologise.
For what? Defending *my* home?
You insulted my mother!
And she insulted *me*. But you didnt notice.
He clenched his fists. Maybe Mums right. You *are* selfish.
And youre a mummys boy. Maybe you shouldve married *her*?
He paled. Margaret grabbed his arm. Come, darling. Shes not worth it.
The door slammed. Alone, I stared at the paperslistings, contracts, all prepped as if my consent meant nothing.
Days passed in silence. Oliver slept on the sofa, left early, came home late. Thursday, I found a stranger in the flat.
James Whitmore, valuer, he said. Your husband let me in.
I threw him out and called Oliver.
You had *no right*.
Its *our* flat, he said.
No. Its *mine*.
Love means sharing.
Love doesnt mean *stealing*. He hung up.
That weekend, a solicitor arrivedMargarets. Victoria Clarke, she said. Lets discuss the flat.
No sale.
Olivers family has given you so muchwedding, holidays…
Gifts, not *loans*.
Family means compromise, she pressed. Margarets offering you a room in their home.
How *generous*, I said dryly.
She sighed. Oliver could divorce you.
Let him.
Hell claim half.
The flats pre-marital. Try proving otherwise.
She left. Monday, a colleague asked, Are you *really* divorcing? Oliver had posted online, painting me as greedy, heartless. I replied with factshis mothers pressure, the solicitors threats.
The fallout was instant. Friends took sides. A week later, Oliver returned, gaunt.
I dont want a divorce, he muttered. But Mum says shell cut me off if I dont make you sell.
Ah. So its *her* money or me?
Its not that simple!
It *is*. Why does she need my flat?
He crumpled. Debts. Dad lost everything. The house is mortgaged.
I sat beside him. You shouldve told me.
Mum forbade it.
And her solution is to *take* my home?
Its temporary! Just to pay creditors.
Or you couldve *rented* it. But noMargaret would never stoop to *my* money.
He stood, pacing. You dont understand. Losing that house would destroy her.
Im sorry, Oliver. Truly. But I wont pay for their mistakes.
Theyre *family*!
And *Im* not?
He grabbed his coat. Mum was right. You *are* selfish.
And youre a coward. Maybe thats the real problem.
The door slammed. His phone buzzed on the table*Margaret: Did she agree?* I left it untouched.
Next morning, pounding. Emily! Open up! Margaret screeched.
I cracked the door. What?
Olivers phone! Hand it over!
He can fetch it himself.
He *wont* see you!
Good.
She turned purple. Ill call the police!
Do. Explain why youre harassing me.
Richard tugged her away. Margaret, *leave it*.
Over her shoulder, she hissed, Youve ruined my son!
*He* ruined himself choosing *your* money over me.
Neighbours peered out. Everything alright, love? Mr. Thompson asked.
Fine, I said. Just farewells.
Oliver collected his things that night. Were done, he said flatly.
Clearly. You chose *them*.
He paused. I thought you loved me.
I did. Until you tried to *steal* from me.
The divorce was swift. He didnt fight for the flat. I didnt ask for a penny.
A month later, I ran into his mate, Tom.
Olivers in a bedsit now, he said. Lost the house. Margarets working at Boots.
I stirred my tea. I am sorry.
He misses you.
Too late.
Tom studied me. Are *you* happy?
I smiled. Redid the balcony. New chair, flowers. Some mornings, I sit out there and think Gran would be proud.
No regrets?
None. This flats finally *mine*no lies, no pressure. Just peace. I stood. Workers are comingnew wallpaper. *My* choice, *my* home.
Walking back, the spring sun warm on my face, I realisedsometimes losing what you thought you wanted is the best thing that can happen. And a womans home isnt just bricks and mortar. Its freedom.
