You should be grateful we even tolerate you, my sisterinlaw Harriet snapped across the festive table.
Is that all? Megan lifted the modest corner of a humble gift bag with a flick of two fingers. Seriously? A set of kitchen towels? Mother, just look at this generosity.
Harriet, enough, Margaret Hughes, the birthday matriarch, pressed her lips together, her eyes flashing a cold approval. Megan tried hard enough.
Hard enough? Harriet laughed, flinging the bag onto a chair. Three pounds from the nearest discount shop? She could have at least stretched a littleshe lives here on the free meals, doesnt even pay a penny for the mortgage.
Megan felt heat creep up her cheeks. She stood by the spread shed been preparing since dawn, feeling like a scolded schoolgirl. Her tenyearold son Oliver, sitting nearby, hunched over his plate, eyes downcast. He understood everything.
I thought it was practical, Megan whispered, not looking up. The old ones were worn out
Practical? Harriet persisted, leaning back in her chair. She was the younger sister of the late Andrew, her husband. 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 room.
The only sound breaking the tension was the clatter of a fork that Oliver dropped. He jumped up and fled the room without a word. Megan started to follow, but Margarets commanding voice halted her.
Where are you going? Sit down. Youve knocked the boys spiritany little thing and hell be in tears. A man should behave like a man, not a little girl.
Megan sat, feeling the chill settle inside her. 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 Harriet in her place. But Andrew was gone, and she was alone in this vast, unfamiliar house, where every slice of bread seemed to have been earned through humiliation.
The celebration was ruined beyond repair. Distant relatives and neighbours pretended nothing had happened, but their conversations grew softer, their glances at Megan tinged with awkward sympathy. She forced a smile, refilled glasses with orange juice, cleared empty plates. She just wanted the day to end.
When the last guests departed, Harriet, already gathering her things with her husband, lingered at the doorway.
I hope you understand Im not being cruel, she said, tone leaving no room for argument. I say what I think. You should be grateful we even put up with you after everything. For Andrews memory, and for mothers sake.
The door slammed. Megan was left alone in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes. Margaret slipped silently back to her bedroom, saying nothing. Fatigue settled on Megan like a lead weight. She sank onto a stool and wept quietly, not from offenseshed almost become accustomed to itbut from sheer helplessness.
Late that night, after washing up, she slipped into Olivers room. He lay awake, facing the wall.
Oliver, are you awake? she whispered, sitting on the edge of his bed.
Mum, why does Aunt Harriet not like us? he asked without turning.
Megan ran her fingers through his hair, searching for the right words to untangle the suffocating web of family relations.
Shes not angry, lovejust she has a difficult temperament. And she misses your father a great deal, just as we do.
Father would have scolded her, Oliver replied confidently. He wouldnt have let her hurt you.
Yes, he wouldnt have, Megan agreed, feeling a lump form in her throat. Sleep now, my darling. School is tomorrow.
She kissed his forehead and left. She had no bedroom of her own. Since Andrews death, she and Oliver had been cramped into his former childrens room, while the spacious master bedroom stood emptyMargaret had turned it into a memory room, left untouched except for herself.
The house, once comfortable, now felt like a gilded cage. It belonged to Andrews parents. After their sons death, Margaret became the outright owner. Megan and Oliver had lived there from the start; Andrew never wanted his ageing mother left alone. He worked long hours, earned well, and his income covered everyone. When he died, the modest savings ran dry quickly. Megan, a qualified accountant, had not worked for years and could only secure a parttime callcentre job to pick Oliver up from school. Her wages barely covered his clothes, school supplies, and other small expenses. They survived on Margarets allowance, which Harriet used as leverage.
The next morning, Margaret behaved as if yesterdays argument never occurred, sipping coffee at the kitchen table while reading the newspaper.
Good morning, Megan said softly, placing a pot of oatmeal on the stove for Oliver.
Margaret 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 dont forget to water the flowers in the sitting room.
Of course, Margaret.
When Margarets door closed, Megan finally breathed freely. Two days of silence, two days without cutting looks or poisonous remarks.
She walked Oliver to school and returned to the empty house. With a watering can in hand, she tended the many plants Margaret adored. In the sitting room, on an old sideboard, family photos stood: a smiling young Andrew, a cheerful Harriet, and a picture that always tightened Megans chesther and Andrew on their wedding day, hopeful and bright.
Her gaze fell on the closed door of the former master bedroomthe memory room. She was forbidden to enter, but curiosity overcame her. The door was unlocked. Carefully, listening for any sound, she stepped inside. The air was stale, smelling of dust and mothballs. Everything was as it had been: the kingsize bed draped in silk, a dressing table with perfume bottles shed never touched, Andrews bookcase.
She ran her fingers over spines of classics, history, and fantasyAndrews favorites. A thick folder wedged between Tolstoy volumes caught her eye. She didnt recall it. She pulled it out, placed it on the table. Its cover simply read Documents.
Her heart hammered. Inside were old papers, receipts, Andrews birth certificate, and, among them, a will drafted by his father, John Whitaker, six months before his death.
She read, the words blurring. In clear black ink it stated that the house they now occupied was bequeathed not to his wife, but to his son, Andrew Whitford, with one condition: his wife, Margaret Hughes, could live there for life. No mention of Harriet.
Megan 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, Oliver. As his legal guardian until he turned eighteen, she was effectively the defacto owner. Margaret had known this all along and had hidden it for years.
She slipped the folder back into the cupboard, shut the door, and stood in a fog of thoughts. Should she confront Margaret with the document? Start a scandal? Imagine Harriets reaction upon learning she had no right to the house The idea made her uneasy. She wanted peace, not war. She merely wanted a quiet life for herself and her son.
For two days she drifted in a haze, weighing her options. She could claim her rights outright, hire a solicitor, and expose the concealment. But then she would have to keep sharing a roof with people who would despise her even more, or evict the elderly motherinlawa move Andrew would never have approved.
When Margaret returned, Megan met her with a calm exterior, helped with the bags, poured tea. Margaret chatted about her friends garden, her seedlings. Megan nodded, all the while marveling at how convincingly Margaret played the part of the devoted matriarch.
That evening, alone in the kitchen, Megan finally spoke.
Margaret, we need to talk.
Margaret lifted an eyebrow, surprised.
About what?
The house, Megan said, keeping her voice steady. I know about John Whitakers will.
A long, ringing silence followed. Margaret set her cup down slowly, her face hardening.
Youve been rummaging through my things? she asked icily.
I found the folder in Andrews old roomyour memory room, Megan replied.
Dont you dare say that! Thats my sons room! Margaret snapped.
Our sons, Megan corrected. His things are still in there. It was our bedroom once.
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
What do you want? Margaret finally asked, her voice metallic. Kick me out? Sell the house and leave?
No. Im not looking to sell. This is Olivers home. It belongs to his father and his grandfather. I just want the humiliation to stop. I want Harriet to stop treating me and my son as if were strangers. Legally, this house is ours.
Margaret sighed, shoulders slumping.
I did this for the family, she murmured. I never wanted Harriet to be left with nothing after Im gone. I thought wed all live together as one family.
We never became a family, Margaret, Megan said quietly. It turned into a boarding house where my son and I are merely tolerated guests. Andrew would not have wanted this. He loved his sister, but he would never have let her behave like this.
Margaret turned toward the window, looking out at the garden.
What will you do?
Nothing, Megan answered. Ill leave the will where it lies. I wont start a legal battle. But I do want you to speak to Harriet and change how you both treat us. Oliver is your only grandson; he shouldnt grow up feeling like an intruder.
The next day was Saturday. By lunch, as usual, Harriet arrived with her husband and their little girl. Megan set the table, tension thick in the air. Margaret sat, pale and silent.
Mum, why are you so sour today? Harriet chirped, plopping into a chair. Did your tenant mood ruin everything again?
Harriet, enough, Margaret snapped, sharper than ever.
Harriet stared, bewildered.
Whats this about?
I want you to apologise to Meganfor yesterday and for everything that came before, Margaret said.
Harriets face stretched.
Apologise? To her? Are you out of your mind? For what? For speaking the truth?
Its not true, Margarets voice trembled. Megan and Oliver are not guests. This house belongs to them.
Harriet turned slowly to Megan, then back at her mother, bewilderment turning into fury.
What are you saying? This is your house! Fathers house!
My father gave it to Andrew, Margaret replied softly but firmly. After Andrew, it passed to Oliver.
A dead silence fell over the kitchen. Harriets husband froze, fork midair. Harriet stared at her mother as if seeing her for the first time.
You you knew all this? she hissed. Youve been lying to us, letting us think shes nobody here?
For the best of the family, Margaret murmured.
For the family?! Harriet shrieked, leaping up. What a joke! Youve fooled us all these years! And you, she jabbed a finger toward Megan, you knew and kept quiet, playing the poor relative?
I only found out two days ago, Megan said calmly.
Lying! You two are conspiring against me! Harriet shouted, grabbing her bag. Im not staying in this house any longer!
She stormed out, her husband following reluctantly, slamming the front door behind them.
Margaret curled her hands over her face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Oliver, who had been watching from the corner, walked over and took Megans hand.
Megan placed a comforting hand on Margarets shoulder.
Dont cry, Margaret. It will be alright.
The old woman lifted tearstained eyes to Megan.
Shell never forgive me.
She will, Megan said firmly. Shes your daughter. She just needs time. We all need time.
Megan didnt know if her words were true, nor what tomorrow would bring. But looking at her sons clenched fist around hers, and at 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. Plenty of challenges lay ahead, but she now knew she had the right to fight for her place in the sun for herself and for Oliver.
