20May2025
Today the waiting room of the solicitors office felt stifling, even though a fresh June breeze lingered outside. I smoothed the pleats of my jacket, trying not to meet the eyes of my sisters, Emily and Charlotte. They arrived right on time, each in her own way: Emily in a sharp blazer, never letting go of her phone; Charlotte in a light cardigan, her face warm as if shed dropped in for tea by accident. I noted how differently they settled: Emily opposite the door, back straight, staring out the window; Charlotte nearer the coffee table piled with worn magazines.
The town of Whitford roared beyond the wallscars honked in the rush hourbut inside time seemed to crawl. A thick, taut silence hung between the sisters; we all knew why we were there, yet none of us dared to speak first.
My eyes drifted to the solicitors door. Behind it lay a piece of our pasta family cottage where wed spent every summer together. After Mums death the house had stood empty for years. Wed all grown up, started families, taken on our own responsibilities. Now the decision made in that cramped room would decide whether we kept a shared place or let it finally slip away.
When the clerk motioned us in, Emily was the first to rise, letting out a barely audible sigh. The office was bright; large windows looked out onto a neatly kept green square. On the desk lay tidy folders and a long wooden pen.
The solicitor greeted each of us by name, her tone calm and businesslike. She explained the procedure, reminded us that written consent was required, and confirmed wed brought all the documents. She checked our surnames and asked for passports. The whole thing moved along as efficiently as an exam.
The line that stuck with me was: The cottage at Willowbrook will pass into joint ownership of the three daughters in equal shares. Emily frowned slightly, Charlotte dropped her gaze. No one voiced any objection.
After the signatures, the solicitor outlined our rights: each sister could now deal with her share under the law, but any change would need the consent of all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth period was set for the formal inheritance, though in practice everything hinged on our own agreement.
Stepping back into the corridor, the evening light striped through the grimy glass. Fatigue settled over me like a blanket; it felt as though something vital had been left behind, and ahead lay only uncertainty.
Emily was the first to break the silence outside.
Maybe we should get together at the cottage? See whats there, she suggested.
Charlotte shrugged.
I can only make it this weekend. After that the kids holidays end.
I thought of the hectic week ahead at the office. Saying no now would be admitting defeat prematurely.
Lets try to visit together, I said slowly. We need to understand what were dealing with.
Emily lowered her head.
Id actually sell it all straight away, she whispered. Well never agree on how to use it and the taxes?
Charlottes eyes lit up.
Sell? Thats the only place left Mums strawberries are still growing there!
What then? Were not children anymore, Emily snapped. Who will look after it? Who will pay for repairs?
The familiar tension resurfaced: each pulling in her own direction, each with her own reason. I recalled summer evenings on the veranda, when our arguments were over who washed the dishes or where to hide apricot jam from the autumn frost. Now the disputes were adulttaxes and shares replacing jam and sandboxes.
Perhaps, I finally said, if we tidy things up and put a little money in, we could let it out in summer? Split the income fairly?
Emily looked at me intently.
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Charlotte interjected.
Id come by now and then with my son, maybe a week each summer. I dont need rental income.
The conversation spun in circles: rotate living, rent to strangers or neighbours, do a full renovation or just patch the roof before the season, sell to an outsider or list the whole property. Old grievances resurfacedwho had invested more, whod cared for Mum, whod once repainted the shutters without asking.
In the end we left the discussion sharp and brief, no compromise reached. We only agreed to meet again in two days at the cottage, each interpreting that as a chance to persuade the others or at least state our position firmly.
The cottage greeted us with the scent of damp earth after the night rain and the harsh whine of a neighbours mower. The house looked much as it always had: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees shedding leaves beside the windows, an ancient bench by the shed with a cracked leg.
Inside it was still stale despite the windows flung open. Mosquitoes lazily hovered over a thick glass vase that Mum had once bought at the local hardware store. The sisters moved through the rooms in silence: Emily inspected meters and windows, Charlotte immediately began sorting books piled in the corner bedroom, I checked the gas cooker and fridgeboth sputtered on and off.
The argument erupted almost straight after the inspection.
This place is falling apart, Emily said irritably. We need a full renovation! Thatll cost money
Charlotte shook her head.
If we sell now well get the least the cottage lives as long as we visit together!
I tried to mediate.
We could fix what we can now, and deal with the rest later, I offered.
But the compromise was only illusion; each of us dug in our heels until night fell. By eight oclock the sky had darkened, the porch light flickered and died, and heavy grey clouds gathered overhead.
A sudden thunderstorm broke out just as we were about to retire to our rooms. Lightning flashed through the windows, rain hammered the roof so loudly we had to speak louder inside.
Midcorridor a strange sound rosea splash mixed with the creak of boards. Water streamed in a thin line along the wall by the bookcase. Charlotte screamed first.
Theres a leak! Look!
I bolted for a bucket in the shed, hunting through old jam jars before finally finding a plastic pail with a handle and sprinting back. The rain intensified, the drops now a steady torrent.
Emily clutched a mop, steering water away from sockets. Short bursts of light illuminated the rooms, shadows dancing on the ceiling, the air thick with ozone, wet wood, and a sharp edge of panic.
Emily turned to us sharply.
This is a family nest! We cant live or rent like this!
No one argued any more; we were all busy clearing books from the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it was clear: if we didnt seal the leak now, wed have to replace half the furniture in the morning.
The earlier grievances suddenly seemed trivial. We all agreed, without words, to find material for a quick fix.
When the water finally stopped, the house seemed to exhale, as did I, Emily, and Charlotte. A halffilled bucket of murky water sat by the bookcase, the rug was soggy at the edges, books were stacked against the wall, and the corridor smelled of damp timber. Outside the rain eased, occasional drops pattering on the sill.
Emily crouched by an outlet, checking it for moisture; Charlotte sat on the stairs clutching an old towel wed repurposed as a rag. The garden gate creaked in the wind.
We need to sort the roof right now, Emily said, weary. Otherwise the next storm will do the same.
I nodded.
Theres felt and nails in the shed I saw a roll on the shelf.
Charlotte stood.
Ill help, just fetch the lanternits dark in there.
The shed smelled of earth and was cool. I managed to locate a battered headlamp; its batteries were low, the light flickered across the walls. The felt was heavier than we expected. Charlotte held the nails, Emily grabbed the hammerthe one Dad once used to fix the garden gate.
Time was short; more rain could return at any moment. We climbed to the loft through a narrow hatch behind the kitchen. It was stuffy, dust and years of memories hanging in the air.
We worked in silence. I held the felt while Emily drove it into the boards, the hammers thud echoing in the cramped space. Charlotte handed over nails, muttering numbers under her breath, perhaps counting beats to keep fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps, night sky peeked; clouds drifted over the garden, the moon casting a pale glow on the wet apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Emily urged. If we dont secure it, the first wind will rip it off.
I pressed the edge of the sheet harder.
Charlotte suddenly laughed.
Well, at least we managed to do something together
The laugh was warm, unexpected, the first genuine sound of the day.
A tension eased within me; my back finally relaxed now that I could breathe a little easier.
Maybe this is how it should be, I whispered. Fix what breaks, together.
Emily met my gazeher eyes not angry, just tired.
It wont work any other way, she replied.
We finished quickly, nailing the last strip of felt and descending.
The kitchen was chilly; the window stayed open after the storm. The sisters gathered at the table: someone set the kettle on, another found a packet of biscuits in the cupboard.
I brushed hair from my forehead and looked at Emily and Charlotteno longer irritated, no longer resentful.
Well still have to keep negotiating, I said. This repair is only the beginning.
Charlotte smiled.
I dont want to lose the cottage, she said, shrugging slightly. And I dont want to fight over it.
Emily sighed.
Im scared of being left alone with all this, she admitted, looking at the table. But if we do everything together maybe itll work.
A pause settled; outside the leaves rustled, a distant dog barked.
Lets not postpone any longer, I decided, pulling a sheet of paper and a pen from my bag. Well draw up a calendarwho can come when during the summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Charlotte perked up.
I can take the first week of July.
Emily thought.
August works best for memy kids are free then.
I sketched dates, drawing lines between weeks; slowly a grid of possible visits and duties appeared.
We argued over small detailswho will be there for the May bank holiday next year, how to split the cost of the mower and electricity, what to do with the apples in autumn. Yet now there was no anger, only a desire to sort things out and not lose each other.
The night passed peacefully; no one woke to the sound of water or wind. In the morning the sun lit the open windows; the garden glittered with dew on apple leaves and the grass along the path to the gate.
I rose before my sisters and stepped onto the porch, bare feet feeling the cool planks. A neighbours voice drifted over the fence, chatting about the weather and the harvest.
In the kitchen the aroma of coffee filled the air; Charlotte had brewed a pot and laid out a packet of stale bread.
Emily arrived last, hair tied back, eyes a little bleary but calm.
We ate together, sharing the bread and talking about the days plans without rush.
Well need another roll of felt, Emily noted. What we used barely lasted.
And a new porch light, Charlotte added. I nearly slipped out there yesterday.
I smiled.
Ill note everything in our repair calendar
The sisters exchanged looks; any lingering grievances seemed to have dissolved.
The cottage was quieter than usual; through the open doors the chatter of neighbours and the clatter of dishes drifted in. The house felt alive againnot just because the roof no longer leaked, but because all three of us were present, each with our quirks and weaknesses, yet no longer apart.
Before leaving we walked through each room once more, closing windows, checking sockets, clearing away the last bits of building material from the loft. On the kitchen table lay the sheet with dates and notes for future purchases.
Emily carefully placed the house keys on the shelf by the door.
Shall we set up a call next week? Ill check with the builder about the roof, she said.
Charlotte nodded.
Ill pop over next week to see the strawberries. Ill give you a ring first.
I lingered in the hallway a little longer, looked at my sisters and said quietly:
Thank you for last night and for today.
They met my eyes, calm and open, the old shadows of distrust gone.
When the gate closed behind us, the garden was dry after the nights downpour; the path shone in the sunlight. The calendar sheet still bore our names beside the dates of future visitsa small promise that we would not let each other slip away, even when the summer turned hardest.
Lesson learned: when shared history is at stake, the only solid foundation we can build is cooperation, not conflict.
