**Cramped!**
Emily stared at the message on her phone in stunned silence:
*”Hello, love. Sorry I’m only reaching out now—I had my reasons. Your mother and I split up when you were just three, so I don’t expect you to remember me. I won’t pretend to be full of regret or beg for forgiveness. I left because I fell in love with someone else, and I don’t think that makes me a villain. I gave your mum the flat we shared and everything in it—walked away with nothing but the clothes on my back. Paid child support too, even if it wasn’t much. All in all, I reckon I did alright by you both.*
*Now, the important bit. Five years back, I moved to Australia with my new family. My mum—your Nan, Margaret Thompson—refused to come. She stayed in her tiny two-room council flat till the end. I covered her bills, her care, everything. But she passed recently. Couldn’t make it back for the funeral—too far, too expensive, even though we’re comfortable here.*
*She had no other relatives. Flying over just to sell that old place isn’t worth the hassle for the pennies it’d fetch. So we’re signing it over to you. Paperwork’s already with a solicitor. Your Nan left it to you in her will. His fees are paid—just handle the stamp duty and probate. Oh, and tend her grave, mind. Put up a headstone. Small price for a whole flat, eh?*
*Hope you make good use of it. And listen—this is for* you. *Your mother got the other flat, the child support, whatever life she built after me. Her new bloke, any kids they had? Not my concern. This inheritance is yours alone.*
*Be happy, love. Dad—Victor Thompson.”*
Beneath were the solicitor’s details. Emily caved and rang him straight away. The facts checked out. An appointment was set for tomorrow afternoon. She wouldn’t tell her mother yet—not until she’d seen the place herself.
At home, the two-bed was bursting. Her half-sister Chloe—three years younger, married with two boys underfoot—squashed into the main room with her husband. Emily and her mum shared the cramped second bedroom. If this flat business was real… *God, what a break.* She’d scraped together savings for a mortgage deposit, dreaming of a studio. But this—this was *hers.* No more blaring telly, no shrieks from the boys, no rifling through her fridge. A bath with no queue. Padding about in just a towel—or less.
No more sticky fingerprints on her laptop. No tower of unwashed plates in the sink. Evenings curled in a dressing gown, proper coffee in hand, designing interiors that actually sold. And—she flushed—a love life, at last. She could turn the small room into her sanctuary, the kitchen into an office, the lounge for hosting.
She grinned, then schooled her face. First, she had to be sure.
The next day, the solicitor—a middle-aged man in rumpled but expensive clothes—verified everything. He drove her to the flat. A shabby ex-council place, peeling walls, cramped layout. But Emily barely noticed the flaws. This was *solitude*. When could she move in?
“Probate’ll take six months,” he said. “No other claimants, so it should be smooth. You can have the keys now, but I’d hold off on renovations. Change the locks, though. Let the neighbours see there’s an owner about.”
Now for her mother. One less mouth to feed—surely that’d help? But Mum’s face darkened. “Why’s Victor dealing with *you*?”
Emily blinked. “I’m his *daughter*.”
“And I was his *wife*. Any property talk should’ve gone through me!”
“Mum, it’s *Nan’s* flat. Dad can’t fly back to sell it, so he’s passing it to me to handle. That’s all.”
“And you just… claimed it?”
“Claimed—? It’s *mine*!”
“What about *us*? Me? Chloe and the kids—we don’t matter?”
Emily’s breath caught. “You’re family, but you’re *nothing* to Nan. Dad left you his share of *this* flat, paid child support. Why should he provide for Chloe’s husband? Her kids? I put *my* life on hold when she got pregnant and moved him in! I’m *twenty-two*. I want my own space!”
Mum scoffed. “Chloe’s struggling too—four of them in one room!”
“That’s *their* choice! She married a bloke with no flat, and they won’t rent!”
“You’d really leave us here?” Mum’s voice wavered.
“Yes! I’ll sign my share over to you or Chloe, and I’m *gone*.”
“I—I thought we could swap both flats for one big house. Room for everyone…”
“With what money? And it’d just delay the inevitable. Chloe’d pop out another kid, and we’d be cramped all over again!”
“Then take me with you. The new place has two bedrooms—”
“—that open into each other! It’d be the same nightmare, just us two! Chloe gets a whole flat, and I’m *still* trapped? No!”
“But you’re *alone*! Chloe’s got—”
“—a *husband* and kids. And what do *I* have?” Emily’s voice cracked. “She got the looks—no wonder Dave moved into this *hovel* for her. But me? I can barely get a date, let alone a ring! Now? Now I can find a *proper* man. One who’ll want me *and* my flat. I’m not staying!”
Mum’s lips thinned. “Couldn’t nab a bloke with his *own* place?”
Emily recoiled. “Men with flats want supermodels or heiresses. I’m neither. But *this* is my chance!” She spun toward her desk, yanked on headphones.
Behind her, the telly erupted at full volume. Some trashy talk show she loathed. Mum’s petty revenge. The screen’s glow lit her tear-streaked face, but Emily didn’t turn around.
