**Diary Entry – A Family Storm**
The evening in our cosy home in Manchester was quiet and peaceful. I, Emily, had just finished washing the dishes after supper while my husband, William, played chess with our son, Oliver. Meanwhile, our younger daughter, Charlotte, was putting her dolls to bed. Suddenly, the doorbell rang—a sound that marked the start of a true family storm. My mother, Margaret, stormed into our lives with accusations that turned everything upside down. Her words about fairness and inheritance still echo in my ears, and the sting of injustice cuts deep.
William and I exchanged glances—we weren’t expecting visitors this late.
“Maybe it’s the neighbours?” William suggested as he went to answer the door.
But there stood my mother, Margaret, with a stern expression.
“Mum?” I asked, surprised. “What’s happened?”
“What’s happened? Plenty!” she snapped, striding straight to the kitchen. “I thought you’d figure it out yourself, but clearly not!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, bewildered, feeling unease tighten in my chest.
“Do you have no conscience?” she burst out. “Are you planning to share or not?”
“Share? Share what? Mum, just explain properly!” I stared at her, completely lost.
William, sensing trouble, quietly returned to Oliver, leaving us alone.
“Would you like some tea?” I offered, trying to ease the tension.
“Just water,” she muttered, her sharp tone making it clear this wouldn’t be a pleasant chat.
“I said—do you have no conscience?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “When will you share?”
“Mum, I genuinely don’t understand. Just say it plainly!” My patience was wearing thin.
“You inherited Aunt Beatrice’s estate and haven’t bothered to share with family! Planning to keep it all for yourself, are you?” she finally snapped.
I froze. Nine months ago, my Aunt Beatrice—Mum’s sister—left me her flat, a cottage, and savings in her will. It was her decision, and I believed it fair—after all, I’d cared for her in her final years.
“Why should I share when Aunt Beatrice left it all to *me*?” I countered.
“Well, I never!” Mum huffed. “A flat, a cottage, money—all for you! Meanwhile, *I* was her sister—her rightful heir! Yes, we didn’t get along, but that doesn’t mean you get everything! And what about your sister, Sophie? Why does she get nothing?”
“Mum, legally, you could only claim if you were retired and dependent on Aunt Beatrice. But you still work! And Sophie has no claim at all,” I replied evenly.
“So you’re keeping it all?” Her voice trembled with anger.
“And why not? When Sophie won two hundred thousand pounds in the lottery three years ago, did *she* share?” I pointed out.
“Don’t compare that! Two hundred thousand is nothing next to your inheritance!” She shot up, slammed the door, and left without another word.
I stood alone in the kitchen, shaken.
Sophie and I had always been different. I’m five years older, studied medicine, and now work as a paediatrician at a private practice. Sophie married straight out of school, had two boys—Henry and Thomas—and never held a job. After our wedding, William and I moved into the home he built with his parents’ help. When Oliver and Charlotte were born, my mother-in-law, Elizabeth, stepped in to care for them so I could finish my studies and work. Without her, we’d never have managed.
Mum always believed things came easily to me while Sophie struggled. Sophie and her family still live in our parents’ home, with all their support going to her. Aunt Beatrice’s inheritance became Mum’s obsession—she truly believed I owed Sophie a share and wouldn’t let it go.
“Emily, you must see that giving Sophie half is the decent thing to do,” she insisted later.
“Fine, Mum—but what about your house? The one you, Dad, and Sophie live in? Who gets *that*?” I asked.
“That’s Sophie’s share. Don’t even think about it,” she said flatly.
“Why not split it fairly?” I demanded.
“Because *you* already have a home!” she shot back.
“That’s *William’s* house, not mine! What do *I* get?” Frustration burned in my chest.
“What more do you need? A home, children, Elizabeth helping—what else could you want?” Her words cut like a knife.
“None of that is *your* doing! The house is William’s. Elizabeth helps with the kids—she even retired early for us! When have *you* ever looked after Oliver or Charlotte?” My voice shook.
“Your father and I raised you,” she retorted.
“And Sophie too—and you *still* support her! Now you want to take what’s rightfully mine. How often did Sophie visit Aunt Beatrice when she was ill? Who took her to hospital? Me, *not* Sophie!”
“So what will you do with it all?” Mum pressed.
“William and Dad are fixing the cottage. Elizabeth will stay there with the children this summer while we visit on weekends. We haven’t decided about the flat yet.”
“Then let Sophie’s family move in! They’ll cover the bills,” Mum proposed.
“No. If we rent it, it won’t be to Sophie. They could get a mortgage if they want their own place.”
“With what money?” she scoffed.
“Sophie could work. Henry and Thomas are old enough.”
“Where? She has no qualifications!”
“Is she just going to sit at home until retirement?”
“Not everyone’s as *lucky* as you—with your degree and career,” she sneered.
“*Lucky*? I worked for that degree! Sophie? I *offered* to help her enrol in college, but she wanted to marry young—and you supported her. Now you complain? She *could* still train, take courses—”
“What courses? She’s expecting her *third* child!” Mum burst out. “*You* need to help her!”
“You know what, Mum? If sense were missing, it can’t be added now. Let’s end this.”
The silence afterward was heavy, my chest tight with hurt. Why should I give up what I earned through hard work and care? My home, my family, my life—they’re the result of mine and William’s efforts. Yet Mum demands I sacrifice for Sophie, who’s never tried to change her own circumstances. This argument has left a wound—one I don’t know how to heal.
