My name is Katherine. My family’s story is a tangled web of heartache and loss. When I was five, my parents divorced. Mum filed for separation after falling for another man. She remarried soon after. Dad, though, never forgot about me—paying child support, collecting me on weekends to stay at his house in the outskirts of Manchester. His love was my anchor in those dark years.
Later, Dad married a woman named Margaret, a widow with two children from her first marriage—James and Emily. I grew close to them quickly. Weekends at Dad’s became a sanctuary, where I felt wanted, part of their warmth. Returning home to Mum became unbearable—it was a world apart.
Mum had two more children with her new husband—a boy and a girl. They started a business together, but it collapsed. Debts piled up like rolling snow. They had to sell their spacious flat in central Manchester and move to a cramped two-bed on the outskirts. Five people in two rooms—life turned suffocating.
Her husband turned to drink. Mum took on extra shifts, leaving teenage me to raise my half-siblings. It broke me. One day, I packed my things and left for Dad’s. I never saw Mum again. All I knew was my half-siblings were taken into care, and she lost parental rights. Her husband vanished from their lives.
At Dad’s, I found life again. Margaret and her mother, Grandma Edith, embraced me as their own. Years flew by—now I’m 34, married with two children. James and Emily have families of their own. We became a true family, bound not just by blood but by love.
When Grandma Rose—Mum’s mother—passed, she left me her cottage in a quiet village near Manchester. A year later, Dad died. He left his flat to James and Emily, and his car to me. There was also an unfinished holiday home. We decided against selling it—instead, we renovated it, a place for the whole family to gather.
Then, when I least expected it, *she* appeared—my mother. Twenty years since our last meeting, she tracked down my address and showed up as if no time had passed.
*”Heard Grandma left you the cottage,”* she began without greeting. *”What else did you get from your dad? You’ve got a brother and sister—where’s the fairness in this? That inheritance isn’t just yours—it’s ours. Sell it all, and we split it three ways.”*
I froze, disbelief turning my blood cold. This woman, who’d abandoned me, now demanded a share of what was *mine*?
*”I’m not splitting anything,”* I said. *”Leave.”*
Maybe it’s cruel, but I feel no guilt. She’s a stranger. So are her other children. My real family is James, Emily, Margaret. They’re the ones who stood by me all these years, sharing every joy and sorrow.
We finished the holiday home—now it’s our haven. We gather there with the kids, James, Emily, and Margaret, laughing, remembering Dad, Grandma, making plans. And Mum? She stays in the past, with her bitterness and demands. I owe her nothing. My conscience is clear.
