You should be grateful we even put up with you, says Claire, the sisterinlaw, at the holiday table.
Is that all? Emma snaps, pinching the corner of a modest gift bag with two fingers. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, just look at this generosity.
Emma, stop it, Margaret, the motherinlaw and birthday celebrant, presses her lips together, a cold approval flashing in her eyes. Claire tried.
Tried? Claire laughs, tossing the bag onto a chair. Twopoundtwenty from the nearest discount shop? She could have been a bit more lavish she lives here on a free board, pays not a penny for the house.
Emma feels heat rise to her cheeks. She stands by the already set table, which she has been preparing since early morning, and feels like a misbehaving schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son, James, sitting beside her, shrinks back and drops his gaze onto his plate. He already understands everything.
I thought it was practical, Emma says quietly, not looking up. The old ones are completely worn out
Practical? Claire continues, leaning back in her chair. She is the younger sister of the late Andrew, bright, selfassured, with a perpetual air of superiority. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. Thered be more room in the house.
A sudden clink of a fork drops from Jamess hand breaks the silence. He jumps up without a word and darts out of the room. Emma flinches, ready to follow, but the commanding voice of her motherinlaw stops her.
Where are you going? Sit down. You made a scene, and now hes in tears. The boy is growing up, not behaving like a little girl.
Emma sits, feeling an icy numbness spreading inside. She eyes the empty chair where Andrew sat five years ago. He would never have spoken to her like that; a single glance from him would have put Claire in her place. But Andrew is gone. Emma is alone in this big, unfamiliar house, where every slice of bread feels earned through humiliation.
The celebration is hopelessly ruined. Distant relatives and neighbours pretend nothing happened, but conversations grow softer, and the looks they cast at Emma brim with awkward sympathy. She forces a smile, refills glasses with juice, clears empty plates. She just wants the day to end.
When the last guests leave, Claire, already gathering her things with her husband, stops at the doorway.
I hope you understand Im not saying this out of spite, she says in a tone that allows no objection. Im just speaking my mind. You should be grateful we even tolerate you after everything for Andrews memory and for mothers sake.
The door slams shut. Emma is left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Margaret slips silently into her bedroom without a word. Fatigue presses on Emma like lead. She collapses onto a stool and weeps silently, resting her head in her handsnot out of resentment, which she has almost grown accustomed to, but from sheer helplessness.
Late that night, after clearing the kitchen, Emma slips quietly into Jamess room. He lies awake, face turned to the wall.
James, are you still up? she whispers, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why does Aunt Claire hate us? he asks without turning.
Emma runs her fingers through his hair, searching for words to explain the tangled, suffocating web of family relations.
Shes not cruel, love. Shes just difficult, and she misses your father a lot, just like we do.
Dad would have scolded her, James says confidently. He wouldnt have let her treat you like that.
Yes, he wouldnt have, Emma agrees, a lump rising in her throat. Sleep now, darling. School is tomorrow.
She kisses his forehead and leaves. She has no bedroom of her own. Since Andrews death, she and James have been living in his former childrens room, cramped and cramped. Their spacious master bedroom now sits empty Margaret has turned it into a memory room, preserved exactly as it was when Andrew lived. Only she may enter.
The house, once large and cosy, has become a gilded cage for Emma. It belongs to Andrews parents. After Andrews passing, Margaret becomes the outright owner. Emma, Andrew, and little James had lived there from the start because Andrew didnt want his ageing mother left alone. He worked hard, earned well, and his income covered everyone. When he died, everything changed. Their modest savings ran out quickly. Emma, a qualified accountant who hasnt worked in years, manages to pick up a halftime callcentre job just to collect James from school. The pay is tiny, and almost all of it goes on his clothes, school fees and other small expenses. They survive on Margarets allowance, and that is Claires trump card.
In the morning, Margaret behaves as if yesterdays argument never happened. She sits at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.
Good morning, Emma says quietly, putting a pot of porridge on the stove for James.
Margaret nods, not looking up.
Im off to my friends cottage for a couple of days. Theres food in the fridge, just look after the house and dont forget to water the flowers in the sitting room.
Will do, Margaret.
When Margarets door clicks shut, Emma finally breathes freely after a long time. Two days of quiet. Two days without pointed looks and poisonous comments.
She walks James to school and returns to the empty house. With a watering can in hand, she tends the many plants Margaret adores. In the sitting room, on an old chest of drawers, sit photographs: a young Andrew, smiling; a tiny picture of Andrew and Claire; and a wedding photo of Emma and Andrew that always makes her heart ache.
Her gaze lands on the closed door of the former master bedroom the memory room. She knows she isnt allowed in, but curiosity wins. The door is unlocked. She slips inside, listening for any sound. The air is stale, smelling of dust and mothballs. Everything is exactly as Margaret left it: the double bed with its silk coverlet, a vanity with perfume bottles she never takes, Andrews bookcase.
She runs her fingers over the spines of classics, history and scifi. A thick folder tucked between a set of Tolstoy volumes catches her eye. She doesnt recall it. Carefully, she pulls it out and places it on the dresser. The cover simply reads Documents.
Her pulse quickens. Inside are old papers: receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and, startlingly, a will. It was drafted by Andrews father, Edward, six months before his death.
Emma reads, her eyes scanning black ink that states the house belongs not to Margaret but to Andrews son, James, on the condition that his mother, Margaret, may live there for life. No mention of Claire at all.
She sits on the edge of the bed, hands shaking. The will means that after Andrews death the sole legal heir to the house is James, and as his guardian she is the defacto owner. Margaret has known this for years and kept it hidden.
She gently returns the folder to its place, shuts the door, and stands in the hallway with a fog of thoughts. What now? Hand the will to Margaret? Start a scandal? Reveal the truth to Claire and watch her fury? She feels sick at the thought of a family feud. She only wants a quiet life for herself and her son.
For two days she drifts in a haze, weighing her options. She could hire a solicitor and claim her rights outright, but that would mean living under the same roof with people who despise her even more, or forcing an elderly woman out of the home her son built. Andrew would never have wanted that.
When Margaret returns, Emma meets her with a calm façade, helping with bags and pouring tea. Margaret chatters about her friends cottage and the seedlings shes proud of. Emma nods, playing the part of the gracious daughterinlaw while plotting her next move.
That evening, after everyone else has gone, Emma finally speaks.
Margaret, we need to talk.
Margaret raises an eyebrow.
About the house, Emma says, keeping her voice steady. I know about Edwards will.
A long, ringing silence follows. Margaret slowly sets her cup down, her face hardening.
Did you sift through my things? she asks icy.
I found the folder in Andrews old room the memory room.
Dont you dare! Thats my sons room!
Its our sons, Emma corrects. My things are still there, and it was our bedroom.
They stare at each other, neither blinking.
What do you want? Margaret finally asks, her voice metallic. To kick me out? Sell the house and leave?
No. Im not selling anything. This is Jamess house, his fathers, his grandfathers. I just want the insults to stop, for Claire to stop treating us like strangers in our own home. By law this house is ours.
Margaret sighs, breathing heavily.
I did this for the family, she murmurs. I didnt want Claire left with nothing after Im gone. I thought wed all live together as one family.
We never became a family, Margaret. It turned into a boarding house where my son and I are barely tenants. Andrew would have hated this. He loved his sister, but he would never have let her behave like this.
She turns toward the window, shoulders slumped.
What will you do now?
Nothing, Emma replies. Ill leave the will where it is. I wont start a legal battle. But I want you to talk to Claire and change how you treat us. James is your only grandson; he shouldnt grow up feeling unwanted.
The next day is Saturday. By lunch, as usual, Claire arrives with her husband and their daughter. Emma sets the table, tension thick in the air. Margaret sits, pale and silent.
Mum, why are you so sour today? Claire asks brightly, plopping down. Did your tenant mood ruin the atmosphere again?
Claire, shut up, Margaret snaps, sharper than ever before.
Claire blinks, stunned.
Whats wrong?
I want you to apologise to Emma. For yesterday and for everything before.
Claires face stretches.
You want me to apologise to her? Are you out of your mind? For what? For speaking the truth?
Thats not true, Margarets voice trembles. Emma and James are not guests. This house belongs to them.
Claire slowly turns her gaze to Emma, then back to her mother. Confusion hardens into fury.
What? Apologise? To her? Youve known all this and kept quiet? You let us think shes nobody here?
I thought I was doing what was best for the family, Margaret stammers.
For the family?! Claire shrieks, standing up. Youve been lying to me for years! And you, Emma, youve been complicit!
You only found out yesterday, Emma says calmly.
Youre lying! You two are conspiring against me! Claire grabs her bag. Im done with this house!
She storms out, her husband following with a fork still in his hand. The front door slams.
Margaret sits, covering her face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. James, who has been watching quietly, walks over and takes Emmas hand.
Emma places a hand on Margarets shoulder.
Dont cry, Margaret. It will get better.
Margaret looks up, tearstreaked and bewildered.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Emma says firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Emma does not know if shes being truthful. She does not know what tomorrow will bring. But looking at her sons clenched fist around her hand and at the broken woman before her, Emma feels, for the first time in five years, not a victim but the master of her own house and destiny. The road ahead will be hard, but she now knows she has the right to fight for her place in the sun. For herself and for James.
