I’m not trudging to that dismal village to bury your mother,” her husband retorted. Yet, when news of her bank account reached him, he arrived with a bunch of flowers.

Im not dragging myself to that godforsaken hamlet to bury your mother, James snapped. Yet when he heard about her bank account, he arrived with a bouquet.

Emily was jolted awake by the relentless buzz of her phone. It was still dark; the clock on the nightstand showed only eight minutes past eight in August a Monday morning. Beside her, James groaned, pulling the pillow over his head to muffle the sound.

Hello? Emilys voice trembled, thick with sleep.

Its Mrs. Harper, your mothers neighbour, a trembling voice announced. Dear, brace yourself your mother Her heart gave out last night. We called an ambulance, but they didnt get there in time.

The phone slipped from her fingers and the room began to spin. Mother gone. Just three weeks earlier theyd spoken Ethel had complained about the heat, told her about the apple trees and the harvest.

What happened? James muttered, eyes still shut.

My mums dead, Emily breathed, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.

James propped himself on his elbows, giving her a glance that held no pity, only irritation.

Well, thats unfortunate. My condolences, he muttered, turning back to the wall.

Emily rose slowly, legs like jelly, yet she had to move. Funeral, paperwork, packing Her head whirred. She opened the wardrobe, dragged out a suitcase and began filling it: a black dress, shoes, her passport.

James sat up, grabbed his phone and, without a flicker of concern, opened the news feed.

Where are you off to? he asked, eyes glued to the screen.

To the hamlet. For the funeral.

What hamlet? That godforsaken place three hundred miles away?

James, my mums dead. Do you understand?

He winced as if hearing something unpleasant.

Ive got an important presentation this week. The boards coming from London. I cant just drop everything and trek out to that hole.

Emily froze, a shirt in her hands, and turned slowly.

Im not asking you to drop everything. Its my mothers funeral.

So what? The dead dont care who shows up. I have to think about my career. We have a mortgage, remember?

She kept packing in silence. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her to endure his temper, his stinginess, his indifference to home life. Something inside finally snapped.

How long will you stay? James asked, heading to the kitchen.

Three or four days. I need to sort everything, handle the paperwork.

Just dont spend too much. We already have enough outgoings.

Emily clenched her jaw. What outgoings? His new smartphone that cost £800? His endless fishing trips?

Two hours later she stood at the bus depot with her bag. James hadnt even offered a lift hed said he was going the other way. No hug, no words of support.

Let the locals dig the grave, hed said as he left. Im not dragging myself out to that dump.

On the bus Emily took a window seat. Fields rushed past, golden stubble under the August sun. Her mother had loved this time of year, always saying August was the most generous month, when the earth gave back for all the labour.

A plump woman with a kind face sat opposite and asked gently:

Going on holiday?

For a funeral. My mothers dead.

God rest her soul Burying a parent is the hardest thing.

Emily nodded, not feeling like talking. Jamess words echoed in her mind: not dragging myself. How could someone be so indifferent? Ethel had always treated him kindly sending homemade jam, knitting socks, looking after him when he broke his leg. She had cared for him for a whole month.

The hamlet greeted her with quiet and the scent of freshly cut grass. The cottage at the edge of town whitewashed, with blue shutters. Her mother had refreshed the whitewash each year: A home should be beautiful, like a holiday.

Mrs. Harper met her at the gate.

Emily, dear Ethel didnt complain at all, she was working in the garden, seemed cheerful

Where is she?

In the house. Weve prepared her with the neighbours. In the blue dress her favourite. The coffin was made by Mr. Thompson, the local carpenter.

Emily entered the sitting room. The coffin rested on a table draped with a white cloth. Her mother lay peacefully, as if asleep. Her face seemed smoother, younger. Emily fell to her knees and wept for the first time that day.

The funeral was set for the next morning. Emily phoned relatives her cousin, her nephew. Everyone promised to come.

That evening, Mr. Thompson, the head of the parish council, stopped by. Greyhaired, bearded, he seemed to know everyone.

Emily, please accept my deepest condolences. Ethel was a rare soul. Everyone here respected her.

Thank you.

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

Emily took the document, surprised. Her mother had never mentioned it. She had lived modestly, pinching pennies.

Its a decent sum about £8,000, the councilor continued. She saved for years, and with interest it added up.

Emilys heart clenched. Eight thousand pounds could change their lives. Pay off part of the mortgage, buy a car, refurbish the flat

And she left you the cottage too. The will is with the solicitor in the district centre. She thought of everything, clever woman.

After Mr. Thompson left, Emily sat on the porch. The sky burned pink. Cows mooed in the distance, returning from pasture. Her mother loved these evenings a cup of tea, watching the sunset.

Her phone was silent. James hadnt called once all day. Emily dialled him herself.

Yes? His voice was irritated.

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.

Silence. Then a light cough.

Eight thousand? Are you serious?

Yes. And she left me the cottage too.

Thats thats great! His tone suddenly warmed. 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.

She smiled bitterly. When she grieved he turned his back. When he heard money he remembered his duty.

Come if you want, she said quietly. If not stay where you are.

James didnt come. Only relatives and neighbours attended. Ethel was laid to rest with dignity quiet eulogies, kind memories, genuine tears from those who knew her as a hardworking, loving woman who devoted her life to her children and her land.

Four days later Emily returned to the city. The key barely turned in the lock James had again forgotten to oil it. His filthy trainers lay in the hallway, his jacket tossed carelessly on the rack. The living room looked like a storm had passed beer cans on the table, pillows on the floor, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The kitchen was worse: a mountain of dirty dishes, hardened food scraps, the bin overflowing. Just four days, and the flat looked as if someone who didnt care lived there.

In the bedroom, James lay in a crumpled tee, staring at his tablet. Hearing her steps, he looked up but didnt rise.

So, youre back? Im hungry.

Emily stood in the doorway, looking at him unshaven, greasy hair, posture more lazy than tired. Fifteen years with this man How had it come to this?

Did you ever wash the dishes once while I was gone?

No time. Work.

Today is Sunday.

So what? I need rest too.

She walked into the kitchen in silence and began cleaning. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind drifted to her mother, who had saved every penny so her daughter could have a better life, and to the man who couldnt even take out the rubbish while his wife buried her mother. To a life that was supposed to get easier, but had become a burden.

That evening something unexpected happened. James returned with a massive bouquet of red roses and a bag from the bakery her favourite eclairs.

Love, Ive been thinking I behaved terribly. Your mum died and I didnt support you, didnt go That was wrong of me.

He set the flowers in a vase, arranged the pastries on a plate, brewed tea. His face was tense, as if he were forcing remorse.

Forgive me, Emily. I should have been there. Remember how we met? At the fair, where you were selling cucumbers and courgettes. Your mum smiled at me like I was family.

Emily nodded. She remembered. Back then James had been different alive, attentive, caring. Where had that man gone?

I was thinking, he continued, about the money We need to handle it right. I can take a day off, go with you to the bank, to the solicitor. There are so many scams now I just want to protect you.

Thanks, but I can handle it myself.

But were a family! We should decide together how to invest the money. I know a bloke hes into investments, can help.

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

He frowned, then composed himself.

Of course, love. But you understand in a family everything is shared. Weve been together for years, paying the mortgage together

That you took out in your name, Emily reminded him quietly but firmly.

Thats just a formality! The flat is ours, youre registered there

Registration doesnt mean ownership. Inheritance isnt marital property.

James stood abruptly. The mask of the repentant husband slipped.

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 sharpened. 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! We can buy a decent car, go to Europe 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! James slammed the table. The vase with roses shook. Im your husband! I have a right to half!

No, you dont. The law is clear: inheritance is separate 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 froze, then slowly sank 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 after hearing about the money.

I truly regret it! Its just work, stress

Dont lie. You dont care that I lost my mother. You care about the account.

How dare you! Ive worked for us for fifteen years!

Worked? Whens 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 grabbed the vase and hurled it at the wall. Roses scattered, glass shattered on the floor.

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

From the hamlet? I went to university, got a job, earned my own money! You just showed up later and took credit!

The argument peaked, James shouting, flailing, spitting. Emily looked at him and, for the first time in years, saw not a husband but a stranger aggressive, greedy. How long had she excused him? Hes just tired, she had told herself. He means well, shed whispered. Hell change with time?

You know what? she said quietly, standing. Get out.

What? This is my flat!

This is a mortgage flat, and I pay half. If you want, Ill call the police and tell them how youre breaking things.

She took his keys off the hook and handed them to him.

Ill pack your things and leave them in the hallway. Take them and go.

You wouldnt dare!

At that moment the door across the hallway opened. Mrs. Lewis, the downstairs neighbour, stepped out, drawn by the noise.

Everythings fine, Mrs. Lewis, Emily said calmly. James is just leaving.

The woman glanced at his twisted face, then at Emily tired but resolute. She nodded.

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

James realised he had lost. With a witness present, he didnt dare cause more trouble. He snatched his jacket and stormed out.

Youll regret this! he shouted down the stairs.

Emily shut the door and leaned against it. Her hands trembled, but inside there was no emptiness, only a strange, unexpected relief, as if years of captivity had finally dissolved.

The next day she packed his belongings into boxes, left them in the hallway, changed the locks, and notified the concierge.

A week later she filed for divorce. No children, no property disputes. In court James tried to claim half the deposit, but the judge explained plainly: inheritance is personal property.

A month later everything was finalised. The £8,000 was in her account. The cottage in Oakford was officially hers. Emily took a short break and went there to sort through her mothers things, to breathe the air of her childhood home.

Standing on the porch she watched the sunset. The warm wind smelled of apples and hay. Somewhere in the distance children laughed, cows mooed. Peace. For the first time in years true peace.

Her phone rang. Jamess number. Emily calmly declined and blocked the contact.

The past was behind her. Ahead lay a new life, without humiliation, without pretense, without a stranger at her side.

Her mother had been right: happiness isnt about money. Happiness is having the right to choose how to live.

And now Emily had that choice.