**Diary Entry: The House That No Longer Welcomes Us**
I was at my desk when the phone rang. It was Emily. Odd—she rarely called during the day.
“Hello, love. Everything alright? I’m a bit busy,” I said, glancing away from the screen.
“It’s not,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “We’ve been thrown out. We’ve got nowhere to live!”
“What?!” I shot up from my chair. “Did something happen to the flat? A fire? Burglary?”
“The flat’s fine… We’re just not allowed to stay anymore,” she murmured.
“Not *allowed*? Who could forbid us from our own home?”
“Who else? Your mother!” The hurt in her voice cut deeper than any knife.
Years ago, we’d moved to London with the girls—Sophie was seven, little Isabelle just five. We rented at first, worked tirelessly. Then luck struck: Emily’s father inherited a flat from a distant relative.
“Live there,” he’d said. “I’m retired, taxes aren’t a burden. The deeds stay in my name, but you won’t hear a peep from us.”
We renovated, bought furniture, settled in. Over time, it felt like ours—legally, it wasn’t. Still, Emily never shook off the unease.
“We’ve put everything into this place, but the papers aren’t in our names,” she’d remind me.
“Don’t fret. Dad’s got us. Who’d kick us out? We’re family.”
Turns out, family did.
It started after Dad’s retirement party. The next day, Mum announced, “We’ve decided—Oliver, your cousin, will move in with you. Just started uni, halls are cramped. Plenty of room at yours.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, “The flat’s in our name. Our rules.”
Emily nearly choked. I just nodded. “No trouble. We’ll manage.”
She bit her tongue. Wrong place, wrong time. But something in her broke that day.
Oliver swaggered in like he owned the place—left messes, cursed, ruined everything he touched. Then Mum and Dad visited. To see “how their lad was settling in.” That’s when the war began.
“Oliver’s trainers are filthy!” Mum scolded. “Why isn’t his laundry done? Where’s the Sunday roast?”
She barked orders like a drill sergeant. Cooked, cleaned, scrubbed. Then, point-blank to Emily:
“I don’t see why my son stays with someone like you. You ought to leave. Hand over the flat.”
“Go where? The girls have their own lives now, rents are sky-high—”
“Not my concern. Pack your things.”
When Emily refused, Mum hissed, “I’ll talk to James. He’ll sign the divorce papers.”
Emily sobbed silently as she folded clothes.
I left work the second I heard.
“Mum, what the hell is this? You threw my wife out?!”
“She’s deadweight. And a drunk!”
“*What?*”
“Heard bottles clinking in her bag. Hiding something? I won’t have that under my roof. My flat, my rules.”
“Mum, that was Oliver taking out the recycling!”
“Don’t pin it on the boy! If she steps foot here again, don’t come crying.”
“Then I’m leaving with her.”
“Even better. Oliver’s got a girlfriend now—she’ll move in.”
My fists clenched. “Fine. Two days.”
“Em, don’t cry. We’ll take everything—Daniel’s got a garage. It’ll be alright. We’ll buy our own place. Maybe not the dream home, but it’ll be *ours*.”
Three days later, Mum returned with Charlotte—armed with sacks of groceries, like storming a battlefield.
“Have they—gone?!” Charlotte gaped.
“Empty… No cooker… Fridge… Furniture—”
“We’ll stash it on the balcony!”
“It’s *pouring* out! Mum, there’s not even a bed!”
Margaret dialled my number—I didn’t answer. The girls didn’t either.
“Margaret, it’s Gran…” she pleaded to one of them. The reply?
“Stop calling!”
All that remained in the flat: a grubby old sofa. And a bucket in the bathtub—proof it was truly over.
Six months later, Emily was cooking in our new flat. The phone rang. Unknown number.
“James? It’s me… Mum. You never call. I’m sorry. Come back. Live here.”
“We *are* living. In our own home.”
“*Yours?* Why’d you need another? You’ve got ours!”
“*Yours* is *yours*. Ours is ours.”
“And the girls? They’ve abandoned me!”
“They want for nothing. We’re done with that flat. Don’t bring it up again.”
I ended the call. That chapter’s closed. For good.
