“You won’t get a single dollar from me!”
“I never received a single one from you anyway,” Emily replied with a thin, bitter smile. “Every cent I earned was poured into your concrete walls. Goodbye.”
She blocked the number.
The next couple of weeks felt unreal, like she had stumbled into some absurd psychological drama. Jason began calling from unfamiliar numbers, ambushing her outside the office, waiting near the entrance as if coincidence might soften her resolve. One day he threatened lawsuits—though he never clarified on what grounds. The next, he showed up clutching flowers, nearly dropping to his knees in front of security, begging her to reconsider.
“Emily, please, forgive me! Mom just overreacted! I’ll talk to her. She’ll transfer the share to me!” he whined, grabbing the sleeve of her coat as she tried to pass through the gate.
“To you?” Emily looked at him with open pity. “And what exactly would that change? Today it’s in your name. Tomorrow you’ll gift it to Katie. Or sign it right back to Margaret. You’re still your mother’s obedient little boy, Jason. You wouldn’t dare sneeze without her approval. Tell me—did you know about Katie’s plan?”
He avoided her eyes.
That was answer enough.
“You knew,” she said quietly, nodding. “And you kept silent. While I worked two jobs, picked up freelance accounting projects, denied myself everything—while I believed we were building something together—you were fully aware that I was being used.”
“Emily, but Katie’s alone… it’s hard for her… We’re strong, we could always buy something later… someday.”
“Then go ahead,” she replied calmly. “You’re strong, aren’t you?”
Emily rented a small studio apartment across town. To her surprise, her salary covered everything comfortably. It turned out that living alone cost three times less than supporting an unemployed husband and a crushing mortgage. She finally had the expensive dental crown placed that she’d postponed for years, bought herself a proper coat, and even enrolled in evening English classes—something she had once dreamed about but never allowed herself.
But the story of that apartment was far from over.
A month later, a court summons arrived.
Margaret, apparently having decided to gamble everything on one desperate move, had filed a lawsuit for “unjust enrichment.” She demanded reimbursement for four years of Emily’s residence in the apartment, arguing there had never been a formal lease agreement and that her daughter-in-law had lived there, benefiting from the property without legal grounds.
Emily hired an attorney—an elderly man with sharp, amused eyes and a permanent half-squint that suggested he had seen every trick in the book. As he read through the complaint, he chuckled for a long time.
“Well then,” he said, polishing his glasses, “let’s do the math. You kept proof of the transfers?”
“Of course. I’m an accountant. I keep everything. Bank records of payments to Jason labeled ‘mortgage,’ direct transfers to Margaret when Jason claimed he couldn’t cover it. Receipts for construction materials. The renovation contract was signed in my name.”
“Excellent. We’ll file a counterclaim. We’ll ask the court to acknowledge that you were the one actually fulfilling the mortgage obligation and request recognition of a property share. The odds aren’t high—since the legal owner is the mother—but it will certainly rattle their nerves. As for her claim, we’ll establish that this was a family arrangement and that your residence was based on an oral agreement permitting you to live there without rent. Moreover, your investments in renovations and mortgage payments exceed any theoretical market rent by at least three times.”
The proceedings dragged on for six exhausting months. It was ugly and humiliating. Margaret staged a dramatic episode in the courtroom, clutching her chest and pretending to suffer a heart attack. Jason sat with his head bowed, mumbling incoherently whenever the judge addressed him.
During the hearings, several unpleasant facts surfaced. Not only had Jason failed to find steady employment, he had secretly taken out multiple microloans for his own “personal needs.” Debt collectors had begun calling not only Margaret but Emily as well, despite the pending divorce.
In the end, the court dismissed Margaret’s claim entirely. Emily’s request for formal recognition of ownership was also denied—just as her lawyer had predicted. The law was clear: the registered owner remained the registered owner. However, the judge ruled that Margaret had indeed been unjustly enriched by Emily’s documented renovation expenses and ordered her to reimburse those costs.
The amount was substantial—close to $20,000—because Emily had preserved every receipt for the high-end kitchen, plumbing fixtures, and furniture they refused to return.
“I don’t have that kind of money!” Margaret shrieked after the decision was read. “I’m a пенсионer! I live on my pension!”
“And the fur coat?” Emily asked mildly, tilting her head as though genuinely curious.