The evening in our cosy home in Manchester was still and peaceful. I, Emily, had just finished washing the dishes after dinner, while my husband William played chess with our son Oliver, and our youngest daughter Amelia tucked her dolls into bed. Then, the sharp ring of the doorbell shattered the calm, marking the beginning of a bitter family storm. My mother, Margaret Whitmore, stormed into our lives with accusations that turned everything upside down. Her words about conscience and inheritance still echo in my ears, the sting of injustice tearing at my heart.
William and I exchanged glances—we weren’t expecting visitors this late.
“Maybe the neighbours?” he suggested, walking to the door.
But there stood my mother, Margaret, her expression stern and unwavering.
“Mum?” I said, surprised. “What’s happened?”
“Plenty!” she snapped, striding past me into the kitchen. “I thought you’d have the decency to figure it out yourself, but clearly not!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confusion turning to unease.
“How’s your conscience?” she shot back, eyes narrowing. “Planning to share, are you?”
“Share? Share what? Mum, just tell me straight!”
William, sensing the tension, quietly returned to Oliver, leaving us alone.
“Would you like some tea?” I offered, hoping to defuse the situation.
“Water will do,” she muttered, her tone sharp enough to cut through any pretense of civility.
“How’s your conscience?” she repeated, voice low. “When do you plan to share?”
“Mum, honestly, I don’t know what you mean. Just say it plainly!” My patience was fraying.
“You inherited everything from Aunt Victoria—property, savings—and you’re hoarding it all for yourself!”
I froze. Nine months ago, my Aunt Victoria, Mum’s sister, had left me her flat, a countryside cottage, and her savings. It was her choice, and I believed it fair—I’d cared for her in her final years.
“Why should I share anything? Aunt Victoria wanted me to have it,” I countered.
“Unbelievable!” Mum’s face twisted in outrage. “You’d keep everything? I’m her sister—her rightful heir! Yes, we fought, but that doesn’t entitle you to all of it! And what about your sister, Charlotte? Doesn’t she deserve a share?”
“Mum, legally, you’d only have a claim if you were retired and dependent on Aunt Victoria. But you’re still working! And Charlotte has no right to it,” I said evenly.
“So you’re keeping it all?” Her voice trembled with anger.
“Why shouldn’t I? When Charlotte won fifty thousand in the lottery three years back, she didn’t share a penny,” I reminded her.
“Don’t compare them! Fifty thousand and what you’ve inherited—they’re worlds apart!” She stood abruptly and slammed the door behind her, leaving me alone in the kitchen, shaken.
Charlotte and I had always been different. Five years older, I’d studied medicine, working as a paediatrician. She married straight out of school, had two boys, Thomas and George, and never held a job. William and I moved into the house he’d built with his parents’ help. When Oliver and Amelia were born, my mother-in-law, Elizabeth, cared for them so I could finish my degree. Without her, we’d have drowned.
Mum always thought life came easily to me while Charlotte struggled. They lived in my parents’ house, all their support flowing to her. Aunt Victoria’s inheritance had become Mum’s obsession—she truly believed I owed Charlotte half.
“Emily, sharing would be the decent thing to do,” she’d press.
“Fine, Mum. What about your house—where you, Dad, and Charlotte live? Who gets that?”
“That’s Charlotte’s share—don’t even think about it,” she snapped.
“Why not split it?”
“Because you already have a home!”
“That’s William’s house! What do I get?”
“What more do you want? A home, children, Elizabeth’s help—aren’t you satisfied?” Her words cut deep.
“None of that was from you! William built our home. Elizabeth raised our children—she even quit her job for us. When did you ever look after Oliver or Amelia?”
“Your father and I raised you,” she shot back.
“You raised Charlotte too—and still do. Now you want to take what’s rightfully mine? How often did Charlotte visit Aunt Victoria when she was ill? Who took her to hospital? Me—not Charlotte!” My voice shook.
“So what will you do?” Mum demanded.
“William and Dad are fixing the cottage. Elizabeth will stay there with the children this summer. As for the flat, we haven’t decided.”
“Then let Charlotte and her family move in! They’ll cover the bills.”
“No. If we rent it out, it won’t be to Charlotte. They could get a mortgage if they want their own place.”
“With what income?”
“Charlotte could work. The boys are old enough.”
“Where? She’s got no qualifications!”
“Is she meant to sit at home until retirement?”
“Not everyone’s as lucky as you—with your degree, your job!”
“Lucky? I worked for it! I offered to help Charlotte study, but she chose marriage—and you encouraged her! It’s not too late for her to train now.”
“Train? She’s expecting another baby! You must help her!”
“You know what, Mum? If sense were money, you’d be bankrupt. We’re done here.”
Silence swallowed the room, the weight of bitterness pressing against my chest. Why should I give up what I’d earned through hard work and care? My family, my home, my life—all were built by William and me. And yet Mum demanded I sacrifice it for Charlotte, who never even tried. The argument left a wound—raw, aching—and I don’t know how to heal it.
