“I’m not trudging off to that wretched village to lay your mother to rest,” her husband retorted. Yet, when he learned about her fortune, he arrived with a bouquet in hand.

Monday, 8August 07:00

The phone has been ringing relentless, pulling me from the halfdarkness of the bedroom. I stare at the clock its barely eight minutes past eight. James is already groaning, pulling the duvet over his head as if that could muffle the world.

Hello? I rasp, voice thick with sleep.

Emily, this is Mrs. Margaret Clarke, your mothers neighbour, a trembling old voice says. Im so sorry, love. Your mum her heart stopped last night. We called an ambulance, but they never got there in time.

The handset slips. My vision blurs, the room spins. Mum gone. Just three weeks ago wed been chatting over the garden fence about the heat, the apple trees, the harvest

What happened? James mutters, eyes still shut.

My mums dead, I manage, each word feeling foreign, as if they belong to someone else entirely.

James lifts himself onto his elbows, gives me a glance that carries none of the grief I hoped for only a flicker of irritation.

Terrible. My condolences, he mutters, then turns his back to the wall.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My legs are jelly, but theres no time for that. Funeral, paperwork, packing My head whirls. I open the wardrobe, pull out a suitcase and start stuffing a black dress, sensible shoes, my passport.

James sits up, scrolls his phone, and flicks open the news feed as if the worlds headlines matter more than my loss.

Where are you off to? he asks, barely looking up.

To Ashwick. For the funeral.

What Ashwick? That backwater three hundred miles away?

My mums dead, James. Cant you understand?

He winces, as if hearing a sour note.

Ive got a big presentation this week. The directors are coming from London. I cant just drop everything and trek to that ditch.

I freeze, holding a shirt, turning slowly.

Im not asking you to quit your job. 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?

I keep packing in silence. Fifteen years of marriage have taught me to endure his temper, his stinginess, his indifference to anything domestic. Something finally snaps.

How long are you staying? he asks, heading for the kitchen.

Three or four days. I need to sort the paperwork.

Dont waste too much. Weve enough expenses as it is.

I clench my jaw. Which expenses? His new smartphone that cost £800? His endless weekend fishing trips?

Two hours later Im at the coach station with my bag. James didnt even offer a lift Im heading the other way, he said. No hug, no words of support.

Let the locals dig the grave, hed muttered as I left. Im not dragging myself to that dump.

On the coach I sit by the window, watching fields flash past, golden wheat swaying under the August sun. Mum loved this time of year; she used to say August was the most generous month, when the earth gave back for all the hard work.

A kindlylooking lady sits opposite me.

Off on holiday? she asks gently.

For a funeral. My mother died, I reply.

May she rest in peace burying a parent is the hardest thing, she says.

I nod, not feeling like talking. Jamess words echo in my mind: not dragging myself. How could anyone be so cold? My mother had always been kind to him sending homemade jam, knitting socks, even looking after him when he broke his leg last winter.

Ashwick greets me with quiet streets and the smell of freshly cut grass. The cottage at the edge of the village whitewashed walls, blue shutters looks just as Mum kept it each year: A home should be beautiful, like a holiday.

Mrs. Clarke meets me at the gate.

Emily, dear, your mum was never complaining. She was out in the garden, humming, she says.

Wheres she? I ask, throat tight.

In the sitting room. Weve prepared her with the neighbours. In her favourite blue dress. The coffin was made by Mr. Peter Thornton, our local joiner.

I step inside. The coffin sits on a table draped in white linen. Mum lies there, peaceful as if asleep. Her face looks smoother, younger. I collapse to my knees and finally weep.

The service is set for tomorrow. I call my relatives my cousin, my nephew and they all promise to come.

That evening, the head of the parish council, Mr. Alan Hughes, pays a visit. Hes a greyhaired, bearded man who seems to know everyone.

Emily, please accept my deepest condolences. Your mother was a rare soul; everyone here respected her, he says.

Thank you, I manage.

Im here on official business. Your mother came to me a year ago to notarise a copy of her savings book. The deposit was in your name.

I take the document, stunned. Mum never mentioned any savings. She lived modestly, pinching pennies.

Its a decent amount about £8000, Mr. Hughes continues. She saved for years, and with interest it added up.

My heart tightens. Eight thousand pounds could change things pay off part of the mortgage, maybe a new car, some renovations.

And she left you the house as well. The will is at the notary in the district centre. She thought of everything clever woman.

After he leaves, I sit on the porch. The sky blushes pink. Cows low in the distance, returning from pasture. Mum loved these evenings, a cup of tea in hand, watching the sunset.

My phone is silent. James hasnt called once all day. I dial him.

Yes? his voice is sharp.

The funeral is tomorrow at two.

So what? I told you Im not going.

Thats not why Im calling. Mum left a deposit. In my name. Eight thousand pounds.

Silence. Then a faint cough.

Eight thousand? Are you serious?

Yes. And she left me the house too.

Thats thats great! His tone suddenly softens. 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.

I smile bitterly. When I grieved, he turned his back. When money entered the picture, he remembered his duty.

Come if you want, I say quietly. If not stay where you are.

He never shows up. Only relatives and neighbours attend the service. Mum is laid to rest with dignity quiet tributes, heartfelt memories, genuine tears from those who knew her as a kind, hardworking woman devoted to her children and her land.

Four days later I return to London. The frontdoor key barely turns James forgot to oil the lock again. His scuffed trainers sit by the hallway, his jacket slung carelessly on a hook. The living room looks as if a storm has passed through empty beer cans on the coffee table, pillows scattered, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The kitchen is worse: a mountain of dirty dishes, crusted food, the bin spilling over. All in four days the flat looks like it belongs to someone who doesnt care.

In the bedroom, James lies in a wrinkled tee, scrolling on his tablet. He looks up as I enter, but doesnt rise.

So, youre back? Im hungry.

I stand in the doorway, taking in his unshaven face, greasy hair, a posture that screams laziness rather than fatigue. Fifteen years with this man How did it come to this?

Did you ever wash the dishes while I was away?

No time. Work.

Its Sunday.

So what? I need a rest too.

I walk into the kitchen in silence and start cleaning. My hands move automatically, but my mind drifts to Mum, who saved every penny for years so I could have a better life; to a husband who couldnt even take out the rubbish while I buried his mother; to a life that should have gotten easier but has become a burden.

That evening something unexpected happens. James returns with a huge bouquet of red roses and a bag of the bakerys best eclairs my favourite.

Love, Ive been thinking I behaved terribly. Your mum died and I wasnt there. That was wrong, he says, arranging the flowers in a vase, laying out the pastries, brewing tea. His face is tense, as if hes forcing remorse.

Forgive me, Emily. Remember how we met? At the county fair, when you were selling tomatoes and courgettes. Your mum smiled at me like I was part of the family.

I nod. I do remember. Back then James was different alive, attentive, caring. Where has that man gone?

Ive been thinking about the money We need to handle it properly. I can take a day off, go with you to the bank, to the solicitor. There are so many scams these days I just want to protect you, he says.

Thanks, but I can manage myself.

But were a family! We should decide together how to invest it. I know a bloke who does investments, he can help.

Its my mothers inheritance, James. Ill make the decisions.

He frowns, then smooths his expression.

Of course, love. But you understand weve paid the mortgage together

That mortgage is in your name, I remind him quietly but firmly.

Thats just paperwork! The flat is ours, youre registered there

Registration isnt ownership. Inheritance is separate property.

James stands abruptly, 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? His voice sharpens. When I needed a car, you didnt ask for time! You just said we had no money!

Because we didnt. We were barely scraping by.

But now we do! Eight thousand pounds! We could buy a decent car, maybe a short break in the Cotswolds not 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! He slams the table. The vase rattles, roses spill, glass shatters.

Im your husband! I have a right to half!

No, you dont. The law is clear: inheritance is personal property.

How do you know that?

I read it. On the bus. And I also found out I can file for divorce without your consent.

James freezes, then sinks into a chair.

You want a divorce?

Im considering it. James, face the truth. You didnt come to my mothers funeral because you didnt care. Now you care only because of the money.

I truly regret it! Its just work, stress

Dont lie. You dont care that I lost my mother. You care about the bank 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 grabs the broken vase and hurls it at the wall. The roses scatter, the glass shatters.

You ungrateful wretch! I pulled you out of that village and gave you a decent life!

From the village? I graduated, got a job, earned my own money! You just showed up later and took credit!

The argument peaks. James shouts, flails, spits. I look at him and, for the first time in years, I see not a husband but a stranger aggressive, greedy. How long have I excused him? Hes just tired, He means well, Hell change with time?

You know what? I say quietly, standing. Leave.

This is my flat!

Its a mortgage flat, and I pay half. If you want, Ill call the police. Tell them youre breaking the peace.

I take his keys from the hook and hand 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 opens. Mrs. Patel, the neighbour, steps out, drawn by the noise.

Everythings fine, Mrs. Patel, I say calmly. James is just leaving.

She glances at his flushed face, then at me tired but resolute. She nods.

If you need anything call me. Mr. Thornton will help.

James realises hes lost. With a witness present he doesnt dare cause more trouble. He snatches his jacket and storms out.

Youll regret this! he yells down the stairs.

I shut the door and lean against it. My hands tremble, but inside theres no emptiness, no fear only a strange, unexpected relief. After years of captivity I finally feel free.

The next day I pack his belongings into boxes, leave them in the hallway, change the locks, and inform the concierge.

A week later I file for divorce. No children, no property disputes. In court James tries to claim half the deposit, but the judge makes it clear: inheritance is personal property.

A month later everything is finalised. The £8000 sits in my account. The cottage in Ashwick is officially mine. I take a short break and go there to sort through Mums things, clean, breathe the air of my childhood home.

Standing on the porch, I watch the sunset. The warm wind smells of apples and hay. In the distance children laugh, cows low. Peace, at last, genuine peace.

My phone rings. Its Jamess number. I let it go to voicemail and block the contact.

The past is behind me. Ahead lies a new life without humiliation, without pretense, without a stranger beside me.

Mum was right: happiness isnt about money. Its about having the right to choose how to live.

And now I finally have that choice.