You ought to be grateful we even tolerate you, my sisterinlaw said, sliding her fork across the festive table.
Is that all? Grace Clarke snatched the corner of the modest gift bag with two fingers, her expression sour. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, look at this generosity.
Grace, stop, Margaret Clarke, the birthday girl, pressed her lips together tightly, though a flicker of cold approval passed through her eyes. Your sister tried.
Tried? Grace laughed, throwing the bag onto a chair. Three pounds from the local discount store? She could have at least been generous. She lives off her inheritance, pays not a penny for the house.
Margaret felt heat rise to her cheeks. She stood by the table shed set up herself since early morning, feeling like a misbehaving schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son, Ethan, sitting beside her, shrank back and stared down at his plate. He understood everything already.
I thought it was practical, Margaret whispered, not looking up. The old ones were completely worn out
Practical? Grace leaned back, swaggering in her seat. She was the younger sister of Margarets late husband, Andrew. Bright, selfassured, with a perpetual air of superiority. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. The house would have more space.
A sudden clink of a dropped fork broke the silence. Ethan sprang up, darted out of the room without a word. Margaret flinched, ready to follow, but a commanding voice from her motherinlaw halted her.
Where are you going? Sit down. Youve spoiled the boy; the moment something goes wrong hell burst into tears. A man should behave like a man, not a child.
She sank into her chair, feeling a coldness settle deep inside. She glanced at the empty seat where Andrew had sat five years earlier. He would never have allowed such talk; a single look from him would have put Grace in her place. But Andrew was gone, and she was alone in this vast, unfamiliar house where every crumb seemed to demand humiliation in return.
The celebration fell apart miserably. Distant relatives and neighbours pretended nothing had happened, yet their conversations hushed and their glances toward Margaret were filled with awkward sympathy. She forced a smile, topped glasses with juice, cleared empty plates, wishing the day would end quickly.
When the last guests departed, Grace, already gathering her things with her husband, paused at the doorway.
I hope you understand Im not being cruel, she said, tone leaving no room for argument. I speak my mind. You should be grateful we still put up with you after everythingboth for Andrews memory and for Mothers sake.
The door slammed shut. Margaret was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Margarets motherinlaw slipped silently into her own room, saying nothing. Exhaustion pressed down on Margaret like lead. She sank onto a stool and broke down silently, head in her handsnot out of spite, which shed almost grown accustomed to, but from sheer helplessness.
Later that night, after the kitchen was finally cleared, she slipped into Ethans bedroom. He lay awake, facing the wall.
Ethan, you still up? she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why does Aunt Grace hate us? he asked without turning.
Margaret ran her fingers through his hair, searching for words that could untangle the suffocating web of family ties.
She isnt cruel, shes just complex. She misses your father a great deal, as do we.
Dad would have scolded her, Ethan said confidently. Hed never have let her treat you like that.
Yes, he would have stopped it, Margaret agreed, feeling a fresh lump rise in her throat. Sleep now, love. School tomorrow.
She kissed his forehead and left. She had no room of her own; after Andrews death she and Ethan had been crammed into his former nursery, tiny and cramped. Their former master bedroom now stood empty, turned by Margarets motherinlaw into a memory room that only she could enter.
The house, once spacious and cozy, had become Margarets golden cage. It belonged to Andrews parents. After his death, Margarets motherinlaw became the outright owner. Andrew had never wanted his ageing mother left alone; he worked long hours, earned well, and his earnings covered everyone. When he died, their modest savings ran out fast. Margaret, a qualified accountant who hadnt worked in years, could only find parttime work as a callcentre operator to pick Ethan up from school. The pay was tiny, most of it swallowed by clothing, school fees and other expenses. They survived on the allowance from Margarets motherinlaw, and that was the main lever Grace used against them.
The next morning Margarets motherinlaw acted as if the previous days tirade never happened. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and reading the newspaper.
Good morning, Margaret said quietly, putting a pot of porridge on the stove for Ethan.
Mrs. Clarke nodded without looking up. Im off to a friends cottage for a couple of days. Foods in the fridge, look after the house, and dont forget to water the lilies in the sittingroom.
Will do, Margaret, she replied.
When the front door closed behind the motherinlaw, Margaret finally breathed a long, free sigh. Two days of silence. Two days without cutting looks and poisonous remarks.
She walked Ethan to school, returned to the empty house, fetched a watering can and tended the lilies. Mrs. Clarke had always loved plants. In the sittingroom, an old sideboard bore photographs: a smiling young Andrew, a happy couple on their wedding day, a snapshot of Margaret and Andrew on their own wedding daybright, hopeful. Her eyes fell on a closed door leading to the former master bedroom, the memory room. She knew she wasnt supposed to go in, but curiosity overrode the rule.
The door was unlocked. Margaret entered cautiously, ears straining for any sound. The air was stale, scented with dust and mothballs. Everything was exactly as left: their double bed draped in a silk coverlet, a dressing table with perfume bottles shed never touch, Andrews bookcase.
She ran her fingers along the spines of classics, history and fantasy. Between two volumes of Dickens she found a thick folder she didnt recognise. She slipped it out and set it on the dresser. The cover simply read Documents.
Her heart hammered. Inside were old papers, receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and, most importantly, a will. It had been drawn up by Andrews father, Ian Clarke, six months before his death.
Margaret read it, eyes scanning the cramped script. It stated that the house was to be bequeathed not to his wife but to his son, Andrew Clarke, on the condition that his widow, Margaret Clarke, could live there for life. No mention of Grace at all.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling. The will meant that, after Andrews death, the sole heir was their son, Ethan. As his legal guardian until he turned eighteen, Margaret was effectively the houses defacto manager. Her motherinlaw had known this and hidden it all these years.
She slipped the folder back, closed the door quietly, and left with a head full of fog. What should she do with this knowledge? Hand the will over and spark a scandal? Confront Grace, who would learn she had no right to the house? The thought of a battle made her feel sick. She only wanted a quiet life for herself and her son.
For two days she drifted in a haze, weighing her options. She could press her legal claim now, hire a solicitor, expose the hidden will. But then she would have to continue living under the same roof with people who might despise her even more, or drive the elderly lady outsomething Andrew would never have allowed.
When Mrs. Clarke returned, Margaret met her with a calm façade, helped with the groceries, poured tea. The older woman chatted about her friends garden, while Margaret silently rehearsed her next move, feeling oddly like an actress.
That evening, after everyone else had gone, the two of them were alone in the kitchen. Margaret finally spoke.
Mrs. Clarke, we need to talk, she said, keeping her voice steady.
Mrs. Clarke raised an eyebrow. About what?
About the house, Margaret replied. I know about the will your husband wrote.
A long, tense silence stretched. Mrs. Clarke set her teacup down with a soft clink. Her face hardened.
Youve rummaged through my things? she asked coldly.
I found a folder in Andrews old roomthe memory room, Margaret said.
You cant say that! Mrs. Clarke snapped. That was my sons room!
Our sons, Margaret corrected. My things are still there. It was our bedroom.
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
What do you want? Mrs. Clarke finally asked, her voice like steel. To throw me out? Sell the house and leave?
No. Im not trying to sell anything. This is Ethans househis fathers, his grandfathers. I just want the insults to stop. I want Grace to stop treating us as if were strangers in her home. Legally this house is ours.
Mrs. Clarke breathed heavily. I did this for the family, she said quietly. I never wanted Grace to be left with nothing after Im gone. I thought wed all live together, as one family.
We never became a family, Margaret, she said, turning toward the window. It turned into a boarding house where my son and I are tenants with no rights. Andrew would never have allowed that. He loved his sister, but he would never have let her behave like this.
What will you do now? she asked, shoulders slumped.
Nothing, Margaret answered. Ill leave the will where it is. I wont start a legal fight. But I need you to speak with Grace, to change how she treats us. Ethan is your only grandchild; he shouldnt grow up feeling unwelcome in his own home.
The following Saturday, as usual, Grace arrived with her husband and their little daughter. Margaret set the table, feeling the tension simmering in the air. Mrs. Clarke sat silently, her face pale.
Mum, why are you so sour today? Grace chirped, plopping down. Again, your tenant mood ruining the party?
Grace, be quiet, Mrs. Clarke snapped, sharper than ever before.
Grace stared, bewildered. Whats that supposed to mean?
I want you to apologise to Margaretfor yesterday and for everything thats happened before, Mrs. Clarke said, voice trembling.
Graces face stretched. Apologise? To her? Are you mad? For speaking the truth?
Thats not true, Mrs. Clarke faltered. Margaret and Ethan arent guests. This house belongs to them.
Grace turned slowly to Margaret, then back at her mother. Confusion gave way to anger.
What are you on about? This is your house! My fathers house!
Your father left it to Andrew, Mrs. Clarke replied softly but firmly. After Andrew, it passed to Ethan.
A stunned silence fell over the kitchen. Graces husband froze midfork. Grace stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time.
You you knew all this? she hissed. You kept it from us? You let us think she was nobody?
I only wanted what was best for the family, Mrs. Clarke muttered.
For the family?! Grace shrieked, leaping up. What family? Youve been lying to me for years! And you she jabbed a finger at Margaretyou knew and said nothing! Pretending to be the poor relative?
I found out just two days ago, Margaret said calmly.
Youre lying! You two are in on this! Youre both against me! Grace shouted, grabbing her bag. Im not coming back to this house! Not your house!
She stormed out, her husband trailing behind, slamming the front door.
Mrs. Clarke sat, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Ethan, who had been watching quietly in the corner, slipped his hand into Margarets. She placed a comforting hand on Mrs. Clarkes shoulder.
Dont cry, Margaret, she whispered. It will get better.
The old woman lifted tearstained, bewildered eyes. Shell never forgive me.
She will, Margaret said firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Margaret wasnt sure if she was telling the truth, nor what tomorrow would bring. But looking at her sons clenched hand and the weary woman who had deceived everyone, she felt, for the first time in five years, not a victim but the master of her own home and destiny. The road ahead would be hard, but she now knew she had the right to fight for her place in the sun. And she would fightfor herself and for Ethan.
