When Family Turns Stranger
“Tanya, it was George calling,” Michael stepped into the kitchen. “He and Marion plan to visit this Saturday. Just the two of them. Says he wants to talk.”
“Oh, of course—talk,” scoffed Tamsin. “About the cottage, no doubt. Brace yourself. It’ll be ‘fair and family-minded’ redistribution.”
It had been just over two months since Aunt Lydia passed. She’d left Michael and Tamsin a two-bedroom flat in the city centre and a cottage near Brighton. For four years, they’d cared for her—bringing meals, arranging doctor’s visits, even sending her to a convalescent home twice. The others—George and Marion—only took. Summers at the cottage, yet whenever Lydia asked for help, they were always “too busy.”
Saturday at four, George and Marion stood at the door. Their greetings were curt, no smiles. They settled in the sitting room, and George cut straight to it:
“We’re here about the cottage. You got the flat—fine. But the cottage… We looked after it. It’s only fair you let us have it.”
“You didn’t look after it,” Tamsin said evenly. “You stayed there in summer. When Lydia was ill, neither of you even called.”
“Keep your nose out,” Marion hissed.
“Why should I? I was in the will too. And I know exactly how often you visited. Three times in four years. Once for aubergines from the garden, another to bring the kids, the last for tea. That’s it.”
“So what? We’re family!” Marion snapped. “Now what, you’re selling it?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “We’ll tidy it up and put it on the market.”
“Well, good riddance!” George muttered. “Don’t act surprised when you’re left with no one!”
The next day, the phone rang.
“What the devil are you playing at?!” George shouted. “We came with the nephew, and the locks are changed!”
“Naturally. The gate and the front door too. You should’ve called ahead. We’ll meet you there Saturday—collect your things. But not without us.”
“You rotten—”
Michael calmly hung up. Tamsin wasn’t surprised.
“Smart, changing the locks. Otherwise, nothing would’ve been left.”
They sold the cottage. Sold their old flat too. Bought a new three-bedroom in a seaside estate—a ten-minute drive to the beach. Their daughter, Eleanor, kept the city flat while at university. Michael took a job at the docks; Tamsin taught at a grammar school. Life settled into quiet.
But not for long. By March, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. “Family” suddenly remembered Michael existed. Marion called first:
“Well, we’ll be coming down in July. No cottage now, and we need a holiday. We’re not strangers!”
“You’re guests. And we didn’t invite you.”
“Have you seen Brighton rental prices?!”
“No. But if it’s dear, try another town. Or a lake. We’re not hosting.”
“Tamsin’s parents stayed with you!”
“Parents. Not in-laws with kids and grandkids in tow.”
“You’ll regret this. One day, you’ll need help—and no one will come!”
“Don’t fret. From May to September, everyone remembers us. November and February? Silence.”
That silence—that was what Michael and Tamsin treasured most.
