«Mom isn’t going anywhere! You’re the one who’ll be out on the street!» shouted her husband, conveniently forgetting whose name was on the deed.
Emily stood by the window. The sweltering July heat pressed down on London. Outside in the garden, kids dashed between the trees, seeking shade.
«Em, where’s my shirt?» came from the bedroom. «The blue checked one!»
«It’s hanging in the wardrobe,» she replied without turning. «Top shelf.»
Oliver appeared in the doorway, buttoning up the shirt he’d found. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the rough hands of a mechanic. Those same hands had once made her feel safe.
«Listen,» he said, adjusting his collar. «Mum’s coming round today. Tidy up properlylast time she went on all evening about the dust.»
Emily slowly turned to face him. That familiar knot of frustration twisted inside her.
«Your mum always finds something to complain about,» she said quietly. «Last time the roast was too dry, before that the mash was lumpy.»
«Then do better,» Oliver shrugged, like it was nothing. «She’s only trying to help, and you take it the wrong way.»
Emily clenched her fists. This flat was hers. She’d bought the two-bedroom place before they’d even met, decorated it how she liked, poured all her savings into fixing it up. Now Margaret waltzed in every visit, rearranged everything, and lectured her on where things should go.
«Ollie, we live in *my* flat,» Emily reminded him. «Maybe you should remember that?»
Her husband froze, one hand already on the doorknob.
«Whats that supposed to mean?» Olivers voice dropped. «That I dont belong here?»
«I mean your mum acts like she owns the place,» Emily stepped closer. «And you let her.»
«Mum cares about us!» Oliver turned fully toward her. «About *family*! She even gave up her own place for my brother!»
Emily let out a bitter laugh. That tired old story about «helping the young couple» was wearing thin.
«Your mum gave George a one-bed flat two years ago,» she said slowly. «So what? Now she gets to call the shots in *my* home?»
«*Our* home!» Oliver snapped. «Were married!»
«On your thirty-grand salary, wed be renting a box in Croydon,» the words slipped out before she could stop them.
His face darkened. He took a step forward, looming over her.
«So thats it?» His voice shook. «Now youre throwing my wages in my face?»
«Im not throwing anything,» Emily lifted her chin. «Just stating facts. Your mums renting because she gave George her flat. Yet she lectures *us* on how to live.»
«George needed help!» Oliver turned to the window. «Young family, planning kids!»
«Kids,» Emily repeated. «Always about kids.»
He spun back around. That old fire flared in his eyes.
«And what, isnt it time? Five years married and you keep putting it off. A proper wife wants children!»
«On *what*, Ollie?» Emily spread her hands. «Your salary? Do you know how much nappies cost? School uniforms? Medicine?»
«Well manage!» he waved it off. «Everyone else does!»
«Everyone else,» Emily shook her head. «And Ill be stuck on maternity pay while you break your back at the garage for peanuts?»
Outside, birds chirped in the trees. Oliver stayed silent, jaw tight.
«Right,» he finally said, turning back. «Enough arguing. Mums got a problem.»
«What now?» Emily stepped away from the window.
«She cant rent anymore,» Oliver rubbed his neck. «Her pension doesnt cover it, and the landlord doubled the rent.»
Emily nodded. Margaret had been moaning for months about prices. It made sense shed move in with Georgeinto the very flat shed handed him.
«I see,» Emily said. «So Georges lot will have to squeeze in.»
Oliver stiffened. His eyes hardened.
«Mums staying here,» he announced. «Just till she sorts something else.»
Emily froze. The words echoed like theyd come from far away.
«*Here?*» she repeated. «In *our* flat?»
«Yes, here!» Oliver raised his voice. «Whats the issue? Theres room.»
«Ollie, wheres she sleeping? The sofa?»
«Whats wrong with that?» he crossed his arms. «Mum gave up everything for us, and youre being selfish!»
Emily stepped back against the wall. Inside, anger boiled.
«Why not with George?» she asked quietly. «Hes got the flat *she* gave him.»
«Theyve got a *kid*!» Oliver roared. «They need the space! Arent we family too?»
«We *are* family. But this flat is *mine*,» Emily reminded him.
His face went stormy. He moved closer.
«Cold-hearted! Always thinking of yourself! A decent wife would stand by her husband when times are tough!»
Emily pressed against the wall. He was too close, suffocating.
«You wont give me kids, least you could do is help family!» he went on. «Mum sacrificed everything for us!»
«Ollie, listen» Emily started, but he cut her off.
«Maybe you dont *want* a family? Just say it!»
Emily dropped her gaze. Oliver knew how to twist the knife, where to press. Guilt washed over her.
«Fine,» she said quietly. «She can stay a while.»
A week later, Margaret moved into their living room. Three suitcases in tow, she started rearranging immediately. The telly went by the window, the sofa against the wall, Emilys houseplants exiled to the balcony.
«Needs more light in here,» her mother-in-law explained, shoving furniture. «And those plants just collect dust.»
Emily watched silently as her living room became a strangers bedroom. Oliver helped his mum, hauling boxes.
«Mum, you alright here?» he asked gently.
«Ill cope,» Margaret sighed. «Though its a bit tight.»
Three months passed. Emily became a ghost in her own home. Tiptoeing, apologising for every noise.
Margaret took over completely. Binned Emilys washing powder, replaced it with her own. Banned her favourite biscuits.
«These are too dear, get the cheap ones,» she ordered in Tesco. «No point wasting money.»
Mornings, Emily cleaned under her mother-in-laws watchful eye. One day, taking out the rubbish, something caught her eye. She bent down and froze.
A childhood photo album. The one with school plays, birthday parties. Her only keepsake from growing up.
Hands shaking, Emily pulled it out, stained with tea leaves.
«Margaret,» she called, walking into the living room. «Why was this in the bin?»
Her mother-in-law didnt look up from the telly.
«Oh, that? Chucked it. Just clutter, taking up space.»
«These are my *childhood photos*!» Emilys voice cracked.
«Old rubbish,» Margaret waved her off. «No use keeping it.»
Something inside Emily snapped. Three months of bending, biting her tongueit all burst out.
«*Get out!*» she screamed. «Get out of *my* flat, *now*!»
Margaret leapt off the sofa, eyes blazing.
«How *dare* you speak to your elders like that!» she shrieked. «Know your place!»
A dishevelled Oliver rushed in, taking his mums side instantly.
«Mums not going anywhere!» he bellowed at his wife. «*Youre* the one wholl be out on the street!»
But something in Emily had broken for good. The scream died in her throat. She looked at her husband and his mother with icy calm. Rage turned to clarity.
«The flats in *my* name,» Emily said, quiet but firm. «*I* decide who lives here.»
«You *what*?» Oliver stepped closer, face red. «Im your *husband*!»
«*Ex*-husband,» Emily corrected, turning to the wardrobe.
She yanked out a duffel bag and started stuffing it with Margarets thingsblouses, skirts, nightiestossing them in carelessly.
«Youve lost it!» Oliver shouted. «Stop this *now*!»
Emily didnt answer. She grabbed slippers from under the sofa, flung them in the bag. Margaret scrambled, trying to snatch her things back.
«Love, calm down!» Her voice trembled with outrage. «Were *family*!»
«*Family?*» Emily whirled around. «Family doesnt bin childhood photos!»
Margaret shrank back. Oliver lunged for the bag, but Emily dodged.
«Mum gave up *everything* for her kids!» he yelled. «And youre kicking her out like *rubbish*!»
«Five years I put up with your nonsense,» Emily zipped the bulging bag. «Three months Ive lived like a stranger in my own home!»
She marched to the bedroom for Olivers thingsjumpers, shirts, jeansall into another bag. He followed, grabbing her wrist.
«Think! Where do we *go*?»
«Not my problem,» Emily wrenched free. «Go to Georges.»
«Theres no *room* at Georges!» Margaret wailed from the living room. «Theyve got a *baby*!»
«And *Ive* got *me*!» Emily shouted back, hauling both bags to the door.
She went back for shoes, toiletries, knick-knacks.
«Youll rot here alone!» Oliver spat, yanking on his jacket. «Youll come *begging* us to come back!»
Emily held the door open in silence. Margaret sniffed, shoving the last of her things into a bag.
«Dear, think again,» she pleaded. «Where will we *live*?»
«Where you lived before *me*,» Emily replied.
Oliver snatched his bag and stormed out. On the doorstep, he turned, face twisted.
Margaret shuffled out last, dragging her bags. From the landing, she looked back.
«Ungrateful!» she shouted. «We only wanted whats *best* for you!»
Emily shut the door. Turned the key twice, slid the chain. Shouts, footsteps, the lift doors clanging echoed from the hallway.
Then silence.
Emily leaned against the door, listening to her own breath. For the first time in months, no blaring telly, no creaking sofa under Margarets weight.
She walked into the living room. Put the sofa back, turned the telly around. Brought her plants inside.
Then she sat down, cradling the rescued photo album. Flipped through the pagesschool plays, a fifth birthday cake, nursery graduation.
And suddenly she laughed. Soft at first, then louder. The laughter turned to sobs, then back to laughter. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks, clutching the album to her chest.
The flat was hers again. Hers alone.
