**Diary Entry**
*21st March*
“Stop, just stop! He frittered away *my* money, and now I owe him more? Since when?”
“He’s your *father*!” Mum snapped.
Lillian arched her brows so high her forehead wrinkled like an accordion. Mum stared her down, arms folded across her chest. The kitchen was stifling—stuffy, suffocating. Just like their relationship.
“Dad left me half the flat. That man is nothing to me,” Lillian replied, her voice steady.
“But you *must* see sense,” Mum—Gwen—pressed. “He’s lived here ten years. He’s contributed too, in his own way.”
Lillian nearly scoffed.
“*Contributed?* When, exactly? When he stood over the stove lecturing me on how to fry his *bloody* potatoes while he couldn’t even scramble an egg?”
“Maybe not financially,” Gwen muttered. “But he’s family. You *called* him Dad once.”
Lillian’s gaze dropped to the fridge magnets—souvenirs from family holidays with Dad, years ago, before Victor moved in and trips stopped altogether.
“I said it *once*, at fourteen, to make *you* happy,” she admitted quietly. “And he waved it around like a flag.”
An unwelcome memory flashed: Lillian, humiliated, storming home after being barred from a cinema trip. Victor had decreed she ought to stay home. “Girls shouldn’t gallivant about.”
“But *why?!* Everyone’s going!”
“In my day, children didn’t argue. We’d have gotten the belt.”
He hadn’t raised his voice, but the words jammed in her throat the rest of the night. She hadn’t cried—just buried her face in the pillow, listening to him grumble next door.
“You’ve spoiled her. Little princess. Money down the drain. *In my day…*”
Lillian clenched her fists. That was just the beginning. The nitpicking never stopped—her clothes, her appetite, her “useless chatter.” Sometimes he ordered her about like a housemaid.
She’d realised early: this was his power trip. At work, no one listened. But at home? He could shout, slam the table, *pretend* he was in control.
“Mum.” Lillian blinked back to the present. “Half the flat’s *mine*. Legally. Remember? Victor’s not on the deed.”
“Lill, you don’t understand. If we sell and split it two ways, Victor… he’ll feel *betrayed*. He *thinks* of you as his—”
“Right. Let’s think. What if I sell my half to a stranger? Then *he* can share a kitchen with ‘dear old Dad.’ Betrayal then?”
Gwen fell silent, lips trembling. She was terrified of being alone.
“He’s lived here *so* long,” she whispered. “Put his heart into this place.”
“I *feel* that,” Lillian said coldly. “I feel that if I don’t stand my ground now, no one will. And if I let this slide, I’ll end up like *you*—some bloke’s doormat, crying about it later.”
She left. She couldn’t breathe in that house, beside that stranger who used to be her mother.
Outside, life rolled on—buses humming, kids licking ice creams, heels clicking. As if no earthquake had just shattered the fifth-floor flat.
**—**
She didn’t call Gwen for a week. What was the point? Her mother was just an echo of Victor’s voice.
Instead, Lillian met with an estate agent. The flat was co-owned; she’d sell her half, buy a studio—*anything* to escape.
A buyer emerged quickly: a recently divorced man, polite, unfazed by Gwen’s dramatics. That alone was impressive.
Of course, Mum lashed out afterward. Voice notes flooded Lillian’s phone:
“You’re not just selling bricks, Lill. You’re selling *family*.”
The guilt gnawed. Was she wrong? Renting forever wasn’t an option, but neither was living beside *them*.
She called Dad—rare, but necessary. He’d moved to Manchester, remarried, but sometimes she needed his clarity.
“Remember the flat you left us?”
“Course. Why?”
“Mum says Victor deserves a cut. ‘Ten years of contributions.’”
A pause. Then a tired sigh.
“That flat was your *future*, Lill. Not his pension. You’re grown. Do what’s right—but do it smart.”
Relief, then a fresh sting of memory…
College days. Victor insisted she “pull her weight,” so she’d handed out fliers, scraped together pennies. One payday, she’d splurged—yogurts, cheese, a bit of salami. Stashed it in the fridge.
By morning, only scraps remained. Victor sat chewing toast, milk straight from the carton.
“You took my food.”
“*Our* food,” he corrected. “Family shares. Be grateful you’ve a roof.”
After that, she ate out.
But the bleeding didn’t stop. Mum demanded “household funds”—laundry powder (though Lillian had bought a bulk pack weeks prior), “shared” bills. Slowly, her wages vanished into Victor’s belly.
**—**
Now, the papers were signed. The flat was no longer hers. Standing outside the agency, keys heavy in her pocket, she breathed.
No one would rifle through her cupboards. No lectures on bread knives.
As for Mum?
She’d made her bed.
**—**
*Months later*
Gran’s call came out of the blue.
“Lill, love. How are you?”
“Alright. You?”
“Oh, soothing your mum, mostly.”
Lillian froze. She’d never wished Gwen harm.
“What happened?”
“She sold the flat. Couldn’t take it—rows with Victor daily. You know how he is.”
Lillian sat. The words stuck.
“She’s renting now?”
“Mm. Dreamt of a two-bed, but the money… Victor blew it. Cafés, clothes. Once it dried up? *Poof*—off to some warmer perch.”
Gran sighed.
“Says you ‘broke the family.’ That if you’d just *endured*—”
“*Endured?* She didn’t ‘endure’ *me* when I annoyed *him*.”
No argument. Gran knew the truth—but still craved peace.
“Don’t be hard on her. She regrets it, deep down.”
They chatted about weather, Gran’s arthritis, cousin Will’s enlistment. Then silence. Lillian didn’t call back.
Next day, walking past estate agents’ windows, she touched the keys in her pocket. *Hers.* No more lessons. No more sneaking hands in her space.
And Mum?
She’d chosen her path.
