I’m not dragging myself to that backwater village to bury your mother, James snapped. Yet when he heard there was a decent sum in her account, he turned up with a bouquet.
Emily was jolted awake by the relentless buzz of her mobile. It was still dark; the clock read just eight minutes past seven on a Monday in August. Beside her, James groaned, pulling the pillow over his head to drown out the noise.
Hello? Emilys voice was hoarse and halfasleep.
Emily, its Mrs. Thompson, your mothers neighbour, a trembling old lady said. Love, brace yourself your mum her heart gave out last night. We called an ambulance, but they didnt get there in time.
The phone slipped from Emilys fingers. The room spun. Her mother gone. Just three weeks earlier theyd been chattingMrs. Thompson had been complaining about the heat, boasting about her apple trees and the gardens bounty.
What happened? James muttered, still halfclosed.
My mums dead, Emily breathed, the words feeling alien.
James propped himself up on his elbows, gave her a glance that held no sympathyjust irritation.
Well, thats unfortunate. My condolences, he muttered, then turned back to the wall.
Emily pushed herself up. Her legs felt like jelly, but there was a funeral to organise, paperwork to file, a house to clear. She opened the wardrobe, grabbed a travel bag and began stuffing a black dress, a pair of shoes and her passport inside.
James sat up, swiped his phone and, without missing a beat, opened the news feed.
Where are you off to? he asked, still glued to the screen.
To the village, for the funeral.
What village? That godforsaken place a couple of hours away?
James, my mothers dead. Do you understand?
He winced as if hed just heard a sour note.
Ive got an important presentation this week. The board are flying in from London. I cant just drop everything and traipse to that hole.
Emily froze, shirt in hand, and turned slowly.
Im not asking you to quit work. Its my mothers funeral.
So what? The dead dont care who shows up. I have to think about my career. Weve got a mortgage, remember?
She kept packing in silence. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her to tolerate his temper, his stinginess, his indifference to home life. Something finally snapped.
How long are you staying? James asked, heading to the kitchen.
Three or four days. I need to sort the paperwork.
Just dont splurge. Weve got enough expenses already.
Emily clenched her jaw. What expenses? His new iPhone that cost a small fortune? His endless weekend fishing trips?
Two hours later she stood at the coach station, bag in hand. James hadnt even offered a liftclaimed he was going the other way. No hug, no kind words.
Let the locals dig the grave, hed said as she left. Im not dragging myself out to that dump.
On the coach Emily sat by the window, watching golden fields roll under the August sun. Her mother had loved this time of year, always saying August was the most generous month, when the earth gave back for all the labour.
A plump woman with a kind face sat opposite her and asked gently:
Going on holiday?
For a funeral. My mums dead.
May she rest in peace Burying a parent is the hardest thing.
Emily nodded, not feeling like chatting. Jamess words echoed in her head: not dragging myself. How could anyone be so indifferent? Mrs. Thompson had always been kind to Jamessending homemade jam, knitting socks, looking after him when he broke his leg. Shed cared for him for a whole month.
The village welcomed her with quiet streets and the scent of freshly cut grass. A whitewashed cottage with blue shutters stood at the edge of town, just as her mother had kept it each year: A home should be beautiful, like a holiday, she used to say.
Mrs. Thompson met her at the gate.
Emily, love Margaret didnt complain at all, she was out in the garden, cheerful as ever
Where is she?
In the house. Weve prepared everything with the neighbours. In her blue dressher favourite. The coffin was made by Mr. Arthur Greene, the local carpenter.
Emily stepped into the living room. The coffin lay on a table draped in white. Her mother seemed at peace, as if merely sleeping. Her face looked smoother, younger. Emily fell to her knees and wept for the first time that day.
The funeral was set for the next morning. Emily phoned relativesher cousin, her nephew. Everyone promised to attend.
That evening, Mr. Arthur Greene, the head of the parish council, paid a visit. Greyhaired and bearded, he seemed to know everyone.
Emily, please accept my deepest condolences. Margaret was a remarkable woman. Everyone here respected her.
Thank you.
Im here on official business. Your mother came to me a year agoasked to notarise a copy of her savings book. The deposit was in your name.
Emily took the document, stunned. Her mother had never mentioned it. Shed lived modestly, pinching pennies.
Its a decent sumabout £8,000, Arthur continued. She saved for years, and with interest it grew.
Emilys heart tightened. Eight thousand pounds could change everythingpay off part of the mortgage, buy a car, remodel the flat
And she left you the cottage as well. The will is with the solicitor in the town centre. She thought of everything, clever woman.
After Arthur left, Emily sat on the porch. The sky blushed pink. Cows lowed in the distance, returning from pasture. Her mother loved these eveningstea in hand, watching the sunset.
Her phone was silent. James hadnt called all day. Emily dialled him herself.
Hello? His voice was irritated.
The funeral is tomorrow at two.
So what? I told youIm not going.
Thats not why Im calling. Mum left a deposit. In my name. £8,000.
Silence, then a light cough.
Eight thousand? Are you serious?
Yes. And she left me the cottage too.
Thats thats great! His tone suddenly warmed. Listen, maybe I should come after all? Help with the paperwork?
No need. I can manage.
Emily, come on. Im your husband. I should be there for you.
She smiled bitterly. When she grieved, he turned his back. When money entered the picture, his sense of duty resurfaced.
Come if you want, she said quietly. If notstay where you are.
James never came. Only relatives and neighbours attended. Margaret was laid to rest with dignityquiet eulogies, heartfelt memories, genuine tears from those whod known her as a kind, hardworking woman devoted to her children and her land.
Four days later Emily returned to the city. The front door refused to turnJames had again forgotten to oil the hinges. His dirty trainers were scattered in the hallway, his jacket tossed on a chair. The living room looked like a storm had passedbeer cans on the coffee table, pillows strewn about, an ashtray overflowing with butts. The kitchen was worse: a mountain of unwashed dishes, hardened food scraps, the bin bursting. In just four days the flat looked as if someone who didnt care lived there.
In the bedroom, James lay in a wrinkled tee, staring at his tablet. He glanced up when she entered but didnt move.
So, youre back? Im hungry.
Emily stood in the doorway, taking in his unshaven face, greasy hair, a posture that screamed laziness rather than fatigue. Fifteen years with this man How had it come to this?
Did you ever wash the dishes once while I was gone?
No time. Work.
Today is Sunday.
So what? I need a rest too.
She slipped into the kitchen in silence and began cleaning. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind drifted to her mother, who had saved every penny for a better life for her daughter, and to the man who couldnt even take out the trash while his wife buried her mother. To a life that was supposed to get easier, yet had become a burden.
That evening something unexpected happened. James returned with a massive bouquet of red roses and a bag of the bakerys best eclairsEmilys favourite.
Love, Ive been thinking I behaved terribly. Your mum died, and I wasnt there. That was wrong.
He placed the flowers in a vase, arranged the pastries, brewed a mug of tea. His face was strained, as if he were forcing remorse.
Forgive me, Emily. Remember how we met? At the county fair, where you were selling cucumbers and courgettes. Your mum smiled at me like I was family.
Emily nodded. She remembered. Back then James had been differentalive, attentive, caring. Where had that man gone?
I was thinking, he continued, about the money We need to handle it right. I can take a day off, go with you to the bank, to the solicitor. There are scams everywhere I just want to protect you.
Thanks, but I can manage it myself.
But were a family! We should decide together how to invest it. I know a blokehes into investments, can help.
Its my mothers inheritance. Ill make the decisions.
James frowned, then forced a smile.
Of course, love. But you understandin a family everything is shared. Weve been paying the mortgage together for years
That mortgage is in my name, Emily reminded him quietly but firmly.
Thats just a formality! The flat is ours, youre registered there
Registration isnt ownership. Inheritance isnt marital property.
James sprang up, the mask of the repentant husband slipping.
What are you saying? That you wont share?
Im saying I wont rush into anything. My mother died a week ago. I need time.
Time? He snapped. When I needed a car, you didnt ask for time! You just said we had no money!
Because we didnt. We were barely getting by.
But now we do! £8,000! We can buy a decent car, go to Europenot that shabby spa you dragged me to!
That shabby spa was the only one we could afford. I saved for it for six months.
Enough! James slammed the table. The vase shivered, roses scattering, glass cracking.
Im your husband! I have a right to half!
No, you dont. The law says inheritance is separate property.
How do you know that?
I read it. On the bus. And I found out I can file for divorce without your consent.
James froze, then sank back into his chair.
You want a divorce?
Im thinking about it. James, face the truth. You didnt come to my mothers funeral because you didnt care. Now you careonly after hearing about the money.
I truly regret it! Its just work, stress
Dont lie. You dont care that I lost my mother. You care about the account.
How dare you! Ive worked for us for fifteen years!
Worked? When was the last time you cooked dinner? Did the laundry? Asked how I was? I work just as much, but I run this house alone!
Thats a womans job!
And a mans job is what? Being rude, demanding, doing nothing? Where were you when I needed support?
James grabbed the vase and hurled it at the wall. The roses exploded, glass shattered on the floor.
You ungrateful wretch! I pulled you out of that village and gave you a decent life!
From the village? I went to university, got a job, earned my own money! You just showed up later and took credit!
The argument peaked, voices rose, arms flailed. Emily looked at him and, for the first time in years, saw not a husband but a strangeraggressive, greedy, utterly unfamiliar. How long had she excused him? Hes just tired, shed told herself. He means well, shed whispered. Hell change with time?
You know what? she said quietly, standing. Leave.
What? This is my flat!
This is a mortgaged flat, and I pay half. If you want, Ill call the police and tell them youre breaking the lease.
She snatched his keys from the hook and handed them to him.
Ill pack your things and leave them in the hallway. Take them and go.
You wouldnt dare!
At that moment the hallway door opened. Mrs. Patel, the downstairs neighbour, stepped out, drawn by the shouting.
Everythings fine, Mrs. Patel, Emily said calmly. James is just leaving.
The woman glanced at Jamess flushed face, then at Emilytired but resoluteand nodded.
If you need anythingcall me. Arthur can help.
James realised hed lost. With a witness present he didnt dare cause more trouble. He grabbed his jacket and stormed out.
Youll regret this! he shouted from the stairwell.
Emily shut the door, leaned against it, her hands trembling. Inside, instead of emptiness or fear, there was a strange, unexpected reliefas if after years of captivity shed finally been set free.
The next day she packed his belongings into boxes, left them in the hallway, changed the locks and informed the building manager.
A week later she filed for divorce. No children, no contested assets. In court James tried to claim half the deposit, but the judge made it plain: inheritance is personal property.
A month later everything was finalised. The £8,000 sat in her account, the cottage was officially hers. Emily took a short break and went back to the villageto sort through her mothers things, tidy up, breathe the air of her childhood home.
On the porch she watched the sun dip behind the hedgerows. The warm breeze smelled of apples and hay. Somewhere in the distance children laughed, cows mooed. Peace, at last, settled over her.
Her phone buzzed. Jamess number flashed. Emily politely declined and blocked him.
The past was behind her. Ahead lay a new lifewithout humiliation, without pretending, without a stranger sharing her roof.
Her mother had been right: happiness isnt about money. Happiness is having the right to choose how to live.
And now Emily finally had that choice.
