Don’t fret, Mum! She won’t see a penny,” her husband bragged, oblivious to the fact that his wife was listening in.

Dont worry, Mum! She wont get a penny, I blurted, not realizing my wife was listening at the kitchen door.

Emma was trudging home, exhausted. It was a typical autumn eveningweekday, damp. In her shopping bags were a loaf of bread, a pint of milk, a bag of rice, and a few apples. The stairwell always reeked of damp plaster and boiled cabbage, while the flickering bulb on the secondfloor landing pulsed like a nervous alarm.

She climbed to the third floor and, almost automatically, reached for the banister. Thats when she saw the flatdoor of my mothers flat on the floor below ajar, and heard my voice drifting out.

Dont worry, Mum. Everythings already sorted. The flat is mine under the prenup. She wont even notice until shes left with nothing. The signature looks legit.

Emma froze, her heart sinking into her shoes.

Yes, dear, my mother replied. She never gave you an heir, so why should she get the flat? Shes just a temporary inconvenience.

Emma pressed herself against the wall, clutching the handles of her bags as if they could anchor her to reality. She slipped up the stairs silently, like a shadow, and shut the door behind her. The bags tumbled onto the kitchen table; the loaf tipped, the apples rolled across the floor and she didnt even try to catch them. She perched on the stool by the radiator, staring into the empty room.

The words from below hammered in her mind like a hammer on metal.
She wont even notice The signature looks legit

Stupid. Did I really think she wouldnt find out?

It had all started with convenience. Six years earlier, when we were hunting for a flat, I spoke with the certainty of a man who had already made the decision.

Mums flat is just one floor down. Thats a plus! Shell be right there to help, keep an eye on things. Well pay off the mortgage faster. Makes sense, Emma?

I called it family support.

Emma simply nodded. She didnt know how to argueand didnt want to. All that mattered was having our own place, our own territory. Even with a mortgage, at least it wouldnt be a rented house with someone elses rules.

We registered the flat in both our names, and the paperwork began.

Sign this, Id leave a sheet on the kitchen table beside her tea mug. Just the usual stuff the bank needs.
Or, The solicitors said its for insurance. Pure formality.

She signed, not because she was foolish, but because she trusted me. Who doublechecks formalities with the person you eat, sleep, and share a loan with?

My mother, Margaret Clarke, never hid her disapproval:

Youre cold. No tenderness, no smile. Everything with you runs on a schedule. Not a womanan audit in a skirt.

Emma never took offenseshe simply stayed silent. Only when I was outat work or the gymdid she let herself relax, a deep breath in and out like climbing a hill. My mother interfered in everything: curtains, dishes, the frequency of our date nights, even the soup.

Not salty enough. Do you even know how to cook?

Emma never snapped back. She just did her partlaundry, bills, Saturday cleaning, sorting socks by colour. She lived by the rules she thought were shared. Turned out they were someone elses.

All those technicalities, the tiny things she signed without a second thought, had suddenly become a weapon against her, forged with her own signature.

She stared at an apple that had rolled under the fridge and thought, for the first time, Maybe I havent really been livingjust existing on paper.

She said nothing that night, not at dinner, not over coffee the next morning. Everything stayed the same: I rushed through breakfast, complained about traffic, kissed her cheek, and slammed the door as I left. Only now she no longer watched me go.

When I left, Emma opened the bottom drawer of my desk. The folder of documents lay there as alwayscarelessly. She rifled through the papers with trembling fingers. Then she found it: the Prenuptial Agreement.

Inside were our names and the clause that the flat would go to me in the event of a divorce, dated a month before the wedding. Her signaturealmost.

She stared at it for a long while. It was almost her handwriting but not quite. She had never written the letter e at that angle.

Two hours later she sat in a café by the window opposite Rachel, our friend from university.

Its a forgery, Rachel said after skimming the scans. Well need a handwriting analysis. In the meantimesilence. Dont let him suspect.

That evening Emma slipped a tiny recorder under the dresser in the hallway, photographed the signature and compared it with her passport.

The next day she caught me in the bathroom, speaking to my mother.

Relax, Mum. She hasnt noticed a thing.

Three days passed. Emma kept up the routinelaundry, mopping, stacking groceriesbut now she counted my steps, listened to my tone, and asked herself over and over: How can I sit next to him and lie so calmly?

On Saturday she made his favourite beef stew with garlic and fried onions, and baked an apple crumble. I came home in high spirits, tapping the rhythm of a song on my phone.

Smells amazing! Im knackered. Lets eat?

We ate in silence. Emma was calmalmost icy. When I finished my second bowl, she dried her hands on a towel, met my gaze and said, I heard your conversation with your mum. I found the contract. You didnt even bother to forge my signature properly.

I froze, then smirked.

What nonsense? As usual, youre making things up.

Emma placed the copy of the document on the table, then played the recording. My voice was clear: The flat is mine under the prenup.

I went pale, then flushed.

Everything depends on me! Youre nothing! You cant prove a thing. Its already done. You make troubleyoull be out of here in your slippers.

Emma stood, steady.

Thank you, James. Youve just helped me win the case.

The next day she filed the papers. Rachel handled everythingdivorce petition, motion to declare the prenup invalid, request for handwriting analysis.

The experts confirmed the handwriting wasnt hers. The slant, the pressure, even the curve of the letter r were wrong. The audio recordings showed me discussing with my mother how to leave my wife with nothing. Rachel smiled, Its clean. The scheme you were so proud of is now working against you.

In court I sat sullen, lips a thin line. My mother sat beside me, clutching her handbag, not with shame but disappointment that I hadnt pulled it off.

The judge didnt waste time. Signature forged. Contract invalid. Audio confirms intent. The flat remains with the wife. Defendant will pay compensation.

After the hearing Emma stood at the courthouse entrance, clutching a copy of the decision. The paper rustled as if breathing.

I walked past without meeting her eyes, my mother beside me.

You shouldnt have eavesdropped, I muttered. You ruined everything.

She gave no answer, turned, and walked to the bus stopsteady, straight.

When I finally moved outover two nights, without farewellsthe flat fell quiet. No sound of my footsteps, no mums voice on the phone, no slammed doors in the mornings.

A week later Margaret rang the doorbell. Emma opened without checking the peephole.

Lets not be enemies, shall we? Were still family, she whispered, holding a tin of scones.

Emma shut the door, not harshlyjust calmly.

That same day she pulled down the dark curtains, tossed the old wedding china, bought a new kettle, painted the kitchen walls a light cream, and laid a rug shed always wanted, even though it didnt match the sofa. She moved the bed, not according to anyones feng shui, but for her own comfort. A bright potted plant took its place on the windowsill.

She made tea, opened the window, and sat at the table. This was her place at last.

A year later Emma was a senior analyst at the same firm, recently offered a managerial role, and for the first time she thought, Yes, I can handle it.

She lived alone, peacefully, with weekend trips, leisurely mornings, and Saturday pottery classes. Thats where she met Peter, a widowed instructor, slightly balding, with a quiet voice and warm hands. He didnt laugh loudly, but his chuckle was contagious.

Youve got the hands of someone whos done this before, he said once, watching her shape a vase.

They began seeing each other more oftenno promises, just warmth.

One evening, sitting in her newly bright kitchen, Emma held a cup of tea and smiled. Now I knowwhatever theyre saying through the walls, the most important thing is that your own life carries your own voice.