You should be grateful we even put up with you, my sisterinlaw snapped across the Christmas table.
Is that it? Imogen Clarke snatched the corner of the modest gift bag with two fingers, eyes rolling. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mum, look at this generosity.
Imogen, stop it, Eleanor Hawthorne, the birthday girl, pressed her lips together, a cold flicker of approval behind her eyes. Harriet tried.
Tried? Imogen laughed, tossing the bag onto a chair. Three pounds worth of kitchen linen from the discount aisle? She could have been a bit more generous she lives here on the house, pays nothing for the mortgage.
Harriet felt heat rise to her cheeks. Shed been up since dawn, preparing the spread, and now she felt like a scolded schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son Oliver, sitting beside her, sank lower into his chair, his eyes glued to the plate. He understood everything.
It seemed practical, Harriet said softly, not looking up. The old ones were worn out
Practical? Imogen leaned back, the picture of confidence. Shed been the younger sister of Harriets late husband, Andrew Bennett, brighteyed and evercertain of herself. You know what would be practical? If you found a decent job and moved out. Then thered be more room in the house.
A fork clattered as Oliver dropped it. He sprang up and bolted out of the room without a word. Harriets hand went to follow, but Eleanors sharp voice stopped her.
Where are you going? Sit down. Youve barely managed to keep the boy from crying. Hes growing up, not a little girl.
Harriet sank back, feeling the chill settle deep inside. She glanced at the empty chair where Andrew had sat five years ago. Hed never have spoken to her like that. Hed have put Imogen in her place with a single look. But he was gone, and she was alone in this big, unfamiliar house where every slice of bread seemed earned through humiliation.
The celebration was ruined. Distant relatives and neighbours kept up a façade, but their conversations hushed and their glances at Harriet were full of awkward sympathy. She forced a smile, topped up glasses with juice, and carried away empty plates, wishing the day would end.
When the last guests left, Imogen, 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. Im just saying what I think. You should be grateful we even tolerate you after everything for Andrews memory and for Mum.
The door slammed. Harriet was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Eleanor slipped back to her bedroom in silence. Exhaustion pressed down on Harriet like lead. She collapsed onto a stool and wept silently, not from hurt shed almost gotten used to it but from sheer powerlessness.
Late that night, after the kitchen was finally cleared, she tiptoed into Olivers room. He lay on his stomach, facing the wall.
Tommy, you still awake? she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mum, why does Aunt Imogen dislike us? he asked without turning.
Harriet ran her fingers through his hair, searching for the right words. Shes not mean, just complicated. She misses Dad a lot, as do we.
Dad would have told her off, Oliver declared confidently. He wouldnt have let her treat you like that.
Yes, he would have, Harriet agreed, feeling a knot rise in her throat. Sleep now, love. School tomorrow. She kissed his forehead and slipped out.
Since Andrews death, theyd been living in what used to be his childhood bedroom tiny, cramped. Their spacious master bedroom was now a memory room that Eleanor kept locked for herself. The house, once a cosy family home, had become a golden cage owned by Eleanor after Andrews parents passed.
Harriet, a trained accountant, had been reduced to parttime callcentre work to pick Oliver up from school. The pay barely covered his school clothes, supplies and the occasional bill. They survived on Eleanors allowance, which was the real leverage Imogen wielded.
The next morning Eleanor acted as if yesterdays argument never happened, sipping coffee and reading the paper.
Good morning, Harriet said softly, placing a pot of porridge on the stove for Oliver.
Eleanor nodded without looking up. Im off to a friends cottage for a couple of days. The fridge is stocked, just look after the house and water the plants in the lounge.
Will do, Harriet replied.
When Eleanors door shut, Harriet finally breathed easy. Two days of peace, two days without cutting remarks. She walked Oliver to school, then returned to the empty house, grabbed a watering can and tended to the many plants Eleanor loved. Photographs lined the old dresser in the lounge a young Andrew, smiling; a tiny Oliver and his mother; and a wedding picture of Andrew and Harriet, full of hope.
Her eyes fell on the closed door to the former master bedroom the memory room. Though she wasnt supposed to enter, curiosity got the better of her. The door was unlocked. She slipped inside, listening for any sound. The air was stale, scented with dust and mothballs. Everything was exactly as it had been: the double bed with its silk coverlet, the dressing table with untouched perfume bottles, Andrews bookshelf.
She ran her fingers over the spines of classic novels, then spotted a thick file tucked between two Tolstoy volumes. She hadnt seen it before. On the cover simply read Documents. Her heart raced. Inside were old papers, receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and astonishingly a will. It was drawn up by Andrews father, George Hawthorne, half a year before his death.
She read it: the house was bequeathed not to Eleanor, but to Andrews son, Andrew Jr., with the condition that his wife, Eleanor, could live there for life. No mention of Imogen at all.
Harriet sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. If the will was true, after Andrews death the property should have passed to their son Oliver and she, as his legal guardian, was the defacto owner. Eleanor had known this all along and kept it hidden.
She slipped the file back, closed the door and stood, mind a fog. What now? Hand the will over and spark a family feud? Confront Imogen and watch her flip out? The thought made her uneasy; she didnt want a war, just a quiet life for herself and Oliver.
For two days she moved through the house like a ghost, weighing her options. She could hire a solicitor and press her rights, but that would mean living under the same roof with people who might loathe her even more, or evicting the elderly Eleanor something Andrew would have never allowed.
When Eleanor returned, Harriet met her with a calm façade, helped with the bags, poured tea, and listened as Eleanor chatted about her friends garden. Harriet admired how effortlessly Eleanor played the part of the perfect hostess.
That evening, alone in the kitchen, Harriet finally spoke.
Eleanor, we need to talk.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
About what?
The house, Harriet said, keeping her voice steady. I know about Georges will.
A long, tense silence followed. Eleanor set her teacup down, her face hardening.
You went through my things? she asked, voice like ice.
I found the file in Andrews old room your memory room.
Thats my sons room, Eleanor snapped.
Our sons, Harriet corrected. It still contains my things too. It was our bedroom.
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
What do you want? Eleanor finally asked, tone metallic. Kick me out? Sell the house and leave?
No, Harriet replied. Im not looking to sell. This is Olivers home, his fathers, his grandfathers. I just want the insults to stop, for Imogen to stop treating us like strangers. By law this is our house.
Eleanor breathed heavily.
I did this for the family, she whispered. I never wanted Imogen left with nothing. I thought wed all live together as one family.
We never became a family, Harriet said softly. Its more like a boarding house where my son and I are squatters. Andrew would never have allowed this.
Eleanor stared out the window, shoulders slumping.
What now? she asked.
Nothing, Harriet answered. Ill leave the will where it is. I wont start a court battle. But I need you to speak to Imogen, to change how she treats us. Oliver is your only grandson; he shouldnt grow up feeling like an intruder.
The next day, Saturday, Imogen arrived with her husband and their little girl, as usual. Harriet set the table, feeling the tension in the air. Eleanor was pale and silent.
Mom, why are you so sour today? Imogen chirped, plopping down. Did your tenant ruin the vibe again?
Imogen, shut up, Eleanor snapped, sharper than ever before.
Imogen stared, stunned.
Whats that supposed to mean?
I want you to apologise to Harrietfor yesterday and for everything before.
Imogens face stretched.
Apologise? To her? Are you serious? For speaking the truth?
Its not true, Eleanors voice trembled. Harriet and Oliver arent guests. This house belongs to them.
Imogen turned slowly to Harriet, then back at her mother, eyes flickering between disbelief and fury.
This is your house! My father left it to Andrew!
Father left it to Andrew, yes, Eleanor said quietly. After Andrews death it passed to Oliver.
The kitchen fell into a heavy silence. Imogens husband froze midfork. Imogen stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time.
You knew all this? she hissed. You let us think she was nothing?
I did what I thought was best, Eleanor muttered. For the family.
For the family?! Imogen shrieked, standing up. Youve been lying to us for years! And you, Harriet, youve been complicit!
I only found out yesterday, Harriet replied calmly.
Youre lying! You two conspired against me! Imogen shouted, grabbing her bag. Im not staying in this house any longer!
She stormed out, her husband trailing behind, slamming the front door.
Eleanor sank to the floor, covering her face, sobbing silently. Oliver, who had been watching from the corner, walked over and took Harriets hand.
Harriet placed a comforting hand on Eleanors shoulder.
Dont cry, Eleanor. Itll be alright.
Eleanor lifted tearstained eyes.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Harriet said firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Harriet didnt know what the next day would bring, but as she looked at Olivers grip on her hand and at the weary woman beside her, she felt, for the first time in five years, not like a victim but like the owner of her own home and her own fate. There would be plenty of battles ahead, but she finally knew she had the right to fight for her place in the sun for herself and for her son.
