*No Country Retreat for You!*
Yasmin had barely turned the key in the lock when she felt it—something was off. The flat wasn’t empty. Voices drifted from the kitchen—one deep, male; the other sharp, older. Her mother-in-law had come visiting. Yasmin grimaced. Their relationship was civil, but laced with barbs and lectures. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation. A walk to the shops would do—let the old woman sit and stew until she left.
But as she stepped into the hallway, she froze. The tone of the conversation between her husband and his mother prickled her instincts. She listened—and what she heard turned her blood to ice.
*”Don’t worry, Yasmin will come round to the idea of the country house soon enough,”* Ethan said coolly.
*”Just make sure it’s in your name,”* her mother-in-law added. Yasmin’s eyebrows shot up. Seriously?
*”I’ll figure out how to convince her. And if not—well, we’ll buy it together once we’re married, split the equity. But her flat would stay hers if we divorced—that’s not fair. We’ve lived at my place for two years now; I deserve something too.”*
Her breath hitched. *Divorce?*
*”Of course you do,”* the old woman agreed. *”You and Marie could upgrade then. How are things with her, anyway?”*
Marie? Who the hell was *Marie?*
*”Fine. She keeps pushing me to finalise things, but I told her we need to wait. Once we’ve got the country house, I’ll file for divorce. I’ll tell Yasmin it’s safer to put the money in my account—she’s trusting like that.”*
Yasmin clutched the wall, ears ringing. Fragments of memory flashed—their first date, the estate agent’s office just yesterday, where she’d planned a *surprise*—selling her flat to fund their dream retreat. The cake she’d bought on the way home still sat in its bag.
Her mother had been right. *Never sell.* The flat was her safety net.
Silently, she marched to the bedroom. Yanked out a suitcase, throwing clothes inside. Seconds later, Ethan appeared in the doorway.
*”Yasmin? You’re back already? What are you doing?”*
*”What does it look like?”* Her voice shook. *”You wanted my flat in your name, didn’t you? Well, tough luck! I paid for the renovations—I’ve got the receipts! And everything we bought *together*? We’ll split it. Consider the honeymoon over.”*
Her mother-in-law bolted at the venom in her tone. Ethan stammered, spluttered denials, but it was too late.
Then Yasmin remembered.
At twenty, her parents had gifted her the one-bed flat. *”This is your anchor,”* her mother had said. *”Never let it go. No matter what, you’ll always have somewhere to come back to.”* It had seemed excessive—until now. Now, every word felt like prophecy.
She’d met Ethan a year after uni. Fell hard. Moved in together. He’d insisted she live with him—*”A man provides the home.”* So she’d rented out her place, splitting the income—half for bills, half for savings.
Then the wedding. Gift money went into renovating *his* flat. Her mother had fretted—*Why invest in a home that isn’t yours?* But Yasmin had brushed it off. *”I live here, don’t I?”*
Then, the shift. The distance. The late nights, the irritation—then, like a switch, the charm returned. Flowers. Sweet nothings. And the push for a country house—fresh air, barbecues, *family.* He’d nudged, *”Your flat’s too small. We’ll upgrade later—but first, the retreat.”*
She’d nearly agreed. Wanted to make him happy. Even visited an estate agent, bought the cake. Then she came home—and heard the truth.
Her husband and his mother had been carving up her future. Plotting to leave her with nothing. Bleed her dry, then discard her.
No tears came. Just cold, hard betrayal.
That night, she left. Her parents welcomed her without questions. Her mother held her, silent, steadfast.
Yasmin stood in her one-bed flat now. Traced the walls, gazed out the window. Then she sank onto the sill and whispered:
*”You and I aren’t divorcing. You’re the only stable thing I’ve got left.”*
Because in this world, stability was worth its weight in gold.
And right now, she trusted nothing—and no one—else.
