The waiting room of the solicitors office was stifling, even though a fresh June breeze drifted outside. Olivia brushed the pleats of her skirt, trying not to meet the eyes of either Emma or Clara. The sisters arrived on time, each in her own way: Emma in a sharp blazer, phone glued to her hand; Clara in a light cardigan, her face warm as if shed just dropped by for tea. Olivia noted how differently they settled: Emma chose the seat opposite the door, back straight, gaze fixed on the window; Clara drifted toward the coffee table piled with wellworn magazines.
Outside the town of York, traffic roared and horns blared, but inside time seemed to slow. A thick, tense silence hung between the sisters; they all understood why they were there, yet none dared break the quiet.
Olivia glanced at the solicitors door. Behind it lay a piece of their shared past the family cottage where they had spent every summer together. After their mothers death the house had stood empty for years. The three had grown up, started families, taken on responsibilities. Now, the decision made inside this room would decide whether they kept a common place or let it finally drift apart.
When the clerk invited them in, Emma rose first and let out a barely audible sigh. The office was bright: large windows looked out onto a green square. Neat folders and a long wooden pen lay on the desk.
The solicitor greeted each by name, speaking calmly and efficiently. She explained the procedure, reminded them of the need for documented consent, and checked that their passports were on hand. The paperwork had been prepared beforehand; the solicitor confirmed surnames and asked for identification. Everything proceeded formally and swiftly almost like sitting an exam.
A line stuck in Olivias mind: The cottage at Oakley passes into joint ownership of the three daughters, equal shares. Emmas brow furrowed slightly, Clara lowered her eyes. No one objected out loud.
After the signatures, the solicitor clarified their rights: each sister could now deal with her share according to the law. Any change would require the agreement of all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth period was set for the official inheritance, but in practice everything hinged on the sisters own accord.
Back in the corridor, the evening light striped through the grimy glass. Olivia felt a fatigue settle over her, as if something important had been left behind and the road ahead was unknown.
On the steps outside, Clara broke the silence first.
Maybe we should go up to the cottage? Have a look, she suggested.
Emma shrugged.
I can only manage the coming weekend. After that the kids holidays end.
Olivia thought of her own workload, a week of looming deadlines. Saying no now would feel like admitting defeat too early.
Lets try to go together, she said slowly. We need to understand whats involved.
Emma lowered her head.
Id actually sell everything straight away, she whispered. Well never agree on how to use it and the taxes?
Claras eyes lit up.
Sell? Its the only place where Mums strawberries still grow!
Are we children again? Emma snapped. Who will look after it? Who will pay for repairs?
Olivia felt the familiar tension: each pulling toward her own reason. She recalled warm evenings on the veranda, when arguments were only about who washed the dishes or where to hide apricot jam from the autumn frost.
Now the matters were adult: taxes and titles instead of jam and sandboxes.
Perhaps, she finally said, if we tidy things up and put a little money in, we could rent it out in summer and split the earnings fairly?
Emma looked at her intently.
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Clara interjected.
Id come now and then with my son maybe a week each summer. I dont need rental income.
The discussion spun in circles: live there in turns, rent to strangers or neighbours, do a full renovation or just patch the roof before season, sell to an outsider or list the whole property. Old grievances resurfaced without warningwho had invested more before, who had cared for Mum, who had once repainted the shutters without asking.
The talk grew sharp and brief. No compromise emerged, only an agreement to meet at the cottage in two days, each interpreting it as a chance to persuade the others or at least state their position seriously.
The cottage greeted them with the smell of damp earth after a nights rain and the sharp whirr of a neighbours mower. The house looked much as it had years ago: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees drooping over the windows, a cracked bench beside the shed.
Even with the windows flung open, the interior was stuffy. Mosquitoes lazily circled a heavy glass vase that Mum had once bought at the local hardware store. The sisters moved silently through the rooms: Emma inspected the meters and windows, Clara began sorting boxes of books in the bedroom corner, Olivia checked the gas stove and fridgeboth flickered on and off.
The argument erupted almost immediately after the tour.
This place is falling apart, Emma complained. We need a full renovation! That costs money
Clara shook her head.
If we sell now well get the least. The cottage lives as long as we visit together!
Olivia tried to mediate.
We could fix what we can now, and sort the rest later, she suggested. Take it step by step.
But the illusion of compromise vanished quickly; each held firm until night fell. By dinner time they barely spoke. Clara attempted a simple meal of boiled rice and tinned beans, Olivia watched the news on her phonesignal only near the kitchen window, and Emma flipped through work documents beside the kettle.
At eight oclock darkness settled; the porch light flickered out with a loud click. Heavy grey clouds gathered over the garden.
A sudden thunderstorm rolled in faster than expected. The first clap of thunder sounded as they were pulling themselves into different rooms to sleep. Lightning flashed through the windows, rain hammering the roof so loudly they had to raise their voices just to be heard inside.
Midnight, a strange sound echoed down the hallwaya mix of water splashing and floorboards creaking. A thin stream of water traced the wall beside the bookcase. Clara was the first to scream.
Theres a leak! Look!
Olivia raced to the shed for a bucket, stumbling over old jam jars before finally finding a plastic container with a handle. She carried it back as the rain intensified, water dripping faster.
Emma grabbed a mop, trying to steer the stream away from sockets. Short bursts of lightning illuminated the rooms, casting jittery shadows on the ceiling. The air filled with the scent of ozone, damp wood, and something sharp.
Emma turned sharply to her sisters.
This is a family nest! We cant both live here and rent it out!
Now nobody argued; all were busy shoving books off the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it became clear: if the leak wasnt sealed now, theyd have to replace half the furniture in the morning.
The old grievances seemed petty. The solution arose on its own: find materials for a temporary fix right then.
When the water finally stopped dripping from the ceiling, the house seemed to exhale, as did Olivia, Emma, and Clara. A bucket sat by the bookcase, halffilled with murky water; the rug was soggy at the edges, books stacked against the wall. Outside, the rain eased, the occasional drop pattering on the windowsill.
Olivia wiped her forehead with her sleeve and looked at her sisters: Emma crouched near an outlet, checking that no water had reached it; Clara sat on the stairs, clutching an old towel theyd improvised as a rag. Silence settled, broken only by the shed door rattling in the wind.
We need to sort the roof right now, Emma said wearily. Otherwise the next storm will do the same.
Olivia nodded.
Theres roofing felt and nails in the shed I saw a roll on the shelf.
Clara stood.
Ill help, just fetch a torch its dark in there.
The shed was cool and smelled of earth. Olivia struggled to find an old headlamp; its batteries were low, but the weak beam cut through the gloom. The felt was heavier than they expected. Clara held a handful of nails, Emma took the hammer his father once used to fix the gate.
Time was short; the rain could return at any moment. The three climbed to the loft through a narrow hatch behind the kitchen. It was hot, dust and memories of past years hanging in the air.
They worked in silence. Olivia held the felt while Emma nailed it to the boards the hammers clang echoing in the cramped space. Clara passed the nails, muttering something under her breath, perhaps counting blows or simply keeping fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps, night sky peeked clouds dispersed over the garden, the moon casting a pale light on wet apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Emma urged. If we dont secure it, the first wind will tear it off.
Olivia pressed the edge of the felt harder.
Clara suddenly laughed.
Well, at least weve done something together
The laugh was warm, the first genuine sound of the day.
Olivia felt the tension melt away, her back finally relaxing as she let herself breathe.
Maybe this is how its meant to be, she said quietly. Fixing what breaks together.
Emma met her gaze not angry, just tired.
It wont work any other way
They finished the patch quickly, secured the last strip, and descended.
In the kitchen a cool draft lingered from the open window. The sisters gathered around the table: someone put a kettle on, another found a packet of biscuits in a cupboard.
Olivia brushed a strand from her forehead and looked at Emma and Clara now without irritation or resentment.
Well still have to keep negotiating, she said. This repair is only the beginning.
Clara smiled.
I dont want to lose the cottage, she said, shrugging lightly. And I dont want us fighting over it.
Emma sighed.
Im scared of being left alone with all the upkeep, she admitted, glancing at the table. But if we do it together maybe itll work.
A pause settled, the only sound the gentle patter of rain on leaves and a distant dog barking.
Lets not put this off, Olivia decided. She pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from her bag. Well draw a calendar who can come each summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Clara brightened.
I can take the first week of July.
Emma thought.
August works better for me the kids are free then.
Olivia wrote the dates, drawing lines between weeks; a simple grid of possible visits and duties took shape.
They argued over small details who would come for the May bank holiday next year, how to split the cost of a new mower, what to do with the apple harvest in autumn. Yet now there was no anger, only a desire to sort things out without losing each other.
Night passed peacefully; no one woke to the sound of water or wind. Morning sunlight filtered through open windows, the garden sparkling with dew on apple leaves and grass along the path to the gate.
Olivia rose before her sisters and stepped onto the porch, feeling the cool boards under bare feet. A neighbours voice drifted over the fence, chatting about weather and the upcoming harvest.
In the kitchen the smell of coffee filled the air; Clara had brewed a pot and laid out a slice of storebought bread.
Emma entered last, hair tied in a loose bun, eyes slightly bleary but calm.
They ate together, sharing bread and discussing the days plans without rush.
Well need more roofing felt, Emma noted. What we used barely covered the whole roof.
And a new porch light, Clara added. I almost fell last week.
Olivia smiled.
Ill add everything to our repair calendar, she said.
The sisters exchanged looks; any lingering grievances had evaporated.
The cottage felt quieter than usual; through the open doors came the hum of neighbours and the clink of dishes. The house seemed alive again not merely because the roof no longer leaked, but because all three were present, each with her habits and frailties, now working as a unit.
Before leaving, they walked through each room once more: closing windows, checking sockets, clearing away leftover building supplies from the loft. On the kitchen table lay the sheet of paper covered in dates and notes about needed purchases.
Emma placed the house keys neatly on the shelf by the door.
Shall we arrange a call next week? Ill ask the builder about the roof, she said.
Clara nodded.
Ill swing by next week to see the strawberries. Ill give you a ring first.
Olivia lingered in the hall a little longer, looked at her sisters and whispered,
Thank you for last night and for today.
The sisters shared a quiet, open glanceno sharp shadows of mistrust, only calm understanding.
When the gate shut behind them, the garden was dry after the nights downpour; the path glistened in the sun. The calendar still bore their names beside the dates of future visitsa small promise that they would not disappear from each others lives, even after the toughest summer.
Together they learned that the strongest foundations are not made of timber or brick, but of shared effort and willingness to mend whats broken.
