You should be grateful we even put up with you, the sisterinlaw said at the festive table, voice dripping with forced politeness.
Is that it? Emily pinched the corner of a modest gift bag with two fingers, eyes narrowed. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, look at this generosity.
Emily, stop, Eleanor, the birthday woman, pressed her lips together, a cold glint of approval flashing in her eyes. Your sisterinlaw tried.
Tried? the sisterinlaw laughed, flinging the bag onto a chair. Three pounds from the nearest DIY shop? She could at least be a bit more generousshe lives here on everything thats already prepared, pays not a penny for the house.
Mary felt heat flood her cheeks. She stood by the table she had been setting from dawn, feeling like a misbehaving schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son, Arthur, sat beside her, shrinking into his plate, his eyes fixed on the porcelain. He understood everything.
I thought it was practical, Mary whispered, not lifting her head. The old ones were completely worn out
Practical? Emily retorted, leaning back in her chair. She was the younger sister of the late Andrew, bright, selfassured, forever wearing a mask of superiority. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. Thered be more room in the house.
Silence hung over the table until the clink of a fork dropped by Arthur broke it. The boy sprang up without a word and fled the room. Mary flinched, about to follow, but the commanding voice of her motherinlaw stopped her.
Where are you going? Sit down. You scold the boy, the slightest thing and he bursts into tears. A man grows, yet behaves like a child.
Mary sat, feeling the interior of her chest freeze. She stared at the empty chair where Andrew had sat five years ago. He would never have spoken to her that way; a single look from him would have put Emily in her place. But Andrew was gone. She was alone in this vast, alien house where every slice of bread seemed to demand humiliation as payment.
The celebration was hopelessly ruined. Distant relatives and neighbours pretended nothing had happened, but their conversations softened, their glances at Mary filled with awkward sympathy. She smiled mechanically, poured more juice into glasses, cleared empty plates. She longed for the day to end.
When the last guests left, Emily, already gathering her husband, paused at the doorway.
I hope you understand Im not being cruel, she said, tone leaving no room for protest. I say what I think. You should be grateful we even tolerate you after everything. For Andrews memory, and for Mothers sake.
The door slammed. Mary was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by a mountain of dirty dishes. Eleanor slipped silently to her bedroom, saying nothing. Fatigue settled on Mary like a lead weight. She sank onto a stool and wept silently, her head resting on her handsnot from hurt, which shed almost grown accustomed to, but from sheer helplessness.
Late that night, after washing the kitchen, she slipped into Arthurs room. He lay awake, face turned to the wall.
Arthur, are you sleeping? she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why doesnt Aunt Emily like us? he asked without turning.
Mary stroked his hair, searching for words to untangle the suffocating web of family relations.
Shes not cruel, just has a difficult temperament. She misses Dad a lot, as do we.
Dad would have scolded her, Arthur said confidently. He wouldnt have let her hurt you.
Yes, he wouldnt have, Mary agreed, a fresh lump rising in her throat. Sleep, my love. School tomorrow.
She kissed his forehead and left. She had no bedroom of her own. After Andrews death, she and Arthur lived in his former childrens roomtiny and cramped. Their former master bedroom now stood empty, turned by Eleanor into a memory room where everything remained as it had in his life. Only she was allowed to enter.
The house, once large and cozy, had become Marys gilded cage. It belonged to Andrews parents. After her fatherinlaws death, Eleanor became the outright owner. Mary, Andrew, and young Arthur had lived there from the start because Andrew did not want his ageing mother alone. He worked hard, earned well, and his income covered everyone. When he died, the modest savings ran out quickly. Mary, a qualified accountant who had not worked for years, could only find parttime work as a callcentre operatorjust enough to collect Arthur from school. The meagre wages vanished on his clothes, school supplies, and tiny expenses. They survived on Eleanors allowance, which Emily wielded like a weapon.
The next morning Eleanor behaved as if yesterdays argument never occurred. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, newspaper in hand.
Good morning, Mary said quietly, placing a pot of porridge on the stove for Arthur.
Eleanor 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.
Very well, Eleanor.
When the front door closed behind Eleanor, Mary exhaled for the first time in ages. Two days of silence, two days without sharp looks and poisonous remarks.
She walked Arthur to school and returned to the empty house. Carrying a watering can, she tended the countless plants Eleanor adored. In the sittingroom, on an old sideboard, photographs lined up: a smiling young Andrew, a small picture of Arthur and Emily, and a cherished wedding photo of Mary and Andrewbright, hopeful.
Her gaze fell on the closed door of the former bedroom, the memory room. She was forbidden to enter, yet curiosity gnawed. The door was unlocked. She slipped inside, ears attuned to every creak. The air was stale, scented with dust and mothballs. Everything was exactly as it had been: the doublesize bed with its silk coverlet, the dressing table with unopened perfume bottles, Andrews bookcase.
She ran her fingers over the spines of classics, history, and fantasy. A thick folder, tucked between Tolstoy volumes, caught her eye. She didnt recall it. She eased it out, set it on the desk. The cover simply read Documents.
Her heart quickened. Inside were old papersreceipts, Andrews birth certificate, and, hidden among them, a will. It had been drawn up by her late fatherinlaw, Igor, six months before his death.
She read, and the words blurred. It stated plainly that the house was to be bequeathed not to his wife, but to his son, Andrew, with one condition: his wife Eleanor could live there for life. No mention of Emily.
Mary sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling. The will meant that after Andrews death the sole heir to the house was their son, Arthur, and as his legal guardian until he came of age, Mary was effectively the owner. Eleanor had known this and concealed it all these years.
She placed the folder back, closed the door gently, and stood in a fog of thoughts. Should she confront them with the document? Start a legal battle? Or simply endure the silent oppression? The idea of war made her uneasy. She only wanted a quiet life for herself and her son.
For two days she moved through the house like a ghost, the secret heavy in her chest. She could hire a solicitor, demand her rights, but then what? Live under the same roof with people who would hate her more? Or evict the elderly woman who had raised her husband? Andrew would never have allowed either.
When Eleanor returned, Mary greeted her with a practiced calm, helped with bags, poured tea. Eleanor chatted about her friends cottage and the seedlings. Mary listened, nodding, while internally rehearsing an Oscarworthy performance.
That evening, alone together in the kitchen, Mary finally spoke.
Eleanor, we need to talk.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
About what?
The house, Mary said, keeping her voice steady. I know about Igors will.
A long, ringing silence followed. Eleanor set her teacup down, her face hardening.
You rummaged through my things? she asked, voice as cold as ice.
I found the folder in Andrews memory room.
This is my sons room! Eleanor snapped.
Our sons, Mary corrected, and it was our bedroom too.
They stared at each other, Mary refusing to look away.
What do you want? Eleanor finally asked, metal in her tone. Kick me out? Sell the house and leave?
No, Mary replied. I dont want to sell anything. This is Arthurs house, his fathers, his grandfathers. I just want the humiliations to stop. I want Emily to stop treating us like strangers in our own home. By law this house belongs to us.
Eleanor breathed heavily, shoulders slumping.
I did it for the family, she whispered. I never wanted Emily left with nothing after I was gone. I thought wed all live together as one family.
We never became a family, Eleanor, Mary said, voice soft but firm. It turned into a boarding house where my son and I are squatters. Andrew would never have allowed this. He loved his sister, but he would never have let her behave like this.
Eleanor turned toward the window, eyes distant.
What will you do now?
Nothing, Mary answered. The will stays where it is. I wont start lawsuits. But I want you to speak to Emily, to change how you treat us. Arthur is your only grandchild; he shouldnt grow up feeling he doesnt belong.
The next day was Saturday. By noon, as usual, Emily arrived with her husband and their little daughter. Mary set the table, tension thickening the air. Eleanor sat pale and silent.
Mum, why are you so sour today? Emily chirped, plumping herself onto a chair. Did your tenant mood strike again?
Emily, shut up, Eleanor snapped, sharper than ever before.
Emily stared, bewildered.
Whats that supposed to mean?
I want you to apologise to Maryfor yesterday and for everything before.
Emilys face stretched.
Apologise? To her? Are you out of your mind? For what? For telling the truth?
Thats not true, Eleanors voice trembled. Mary and Arthur are not guests. This house belongs to them.
Emily turned slowly toward Mary, then back at her mother, confusion turning to fury.
What are you saying? This is your house! My fathers house!
My father left it to Andrew, Eleanor said quietly but clearly. After Andrew, it passed to Arthur.
A deathly hush fell over the kitchen. Emilys husband froze, fork midair. Emily stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time.
You you knew all this? she hissed. You kept it from me all these years? You let us think she was nobody?
It was for the family, Eleanor muttered.
For the family?! Emily shrieked, standing abruptly. What a lie! Youve been deceiving us! And you she jabbed a finger at Maryyou knew and stayed silent! Playing the poor relative?
You only found out yesterday, Mary said calmly.
Liar! You two conspired against me! Emily shouted, grabbing her bag. My feet wont be in this house any longer!
She bolted out, husband trailing behind, slamming the front door.
Eleanor sat, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Arthur, who had been watching from the corner, walked over and took Marys hand.
Mary placed a comforting hand on Eleanors shoulder.
Dont cry, Eleanor. It will get better.
Eleanor lifted tearstreaked, bewildered eyes.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Mary said firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Mary didnt know whether she spoke the truth. She didnt know what tomorrow would bring. Yet, looking at her sons clenched grip and at the broken woman who had fooled everyone, Mary felt, for the first time in five years, not a victim but the master of her own house and destiny. There would be many hardships ahead, but now she knew she had the right to fight for her place under the sun. And she would fightfor herself, for Arthur.
