The Legacy of a Stranger’s Blood
Larissa returned from work. The empty flat greeted her with a hollow silence, where every footstep and sigh echoed like a distant memory. She still hadn’t grown used to it—over the past two months, loneliness had become more than a habit; it was a second skin. Her husband was gone. Alex—her rock, her love, her life—had died in a terrible accident. And everything they’d built over the years had crumbled in an instant.
They had spent seventeen years together. Happy, bright, real years. After her first failed marriage, after the pain and running from drunken fists, it was Alex who restored her faith in kindness and love. He didn’t just take her in with her two children—he gave them a home, care, and genuine warmth.
Back then, he lived on the outskirts of Cheltenham, in a small house with his grandmother—the woman who’d raised him in place of his absent parents. The old woman was ill, barely able to move. And Alex was always away on business. He’d placed an advert: he needed someone to help care for his grandmother. Larissa had answered. Exhausted, with children in tow, no roof over their heads. A friend had taken them in for a couple of days, but after that—it was up to fate.
“I can’t pay much,” Alex had said, meeting her gaze honestly.
“I don’t care about money. I just need work and somewhere to stay,” she’d replied.
Alex had thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Stay with us for now. I’ll be leaving in a few days—Gran will feel better with someone around.”
And so she stayed. Three months later, they were living as a family. Love hadn’t come at once, but when it did, it stayed forever. Alex became a father to her children in every way that mattered. Years passed. The children grew up and moved out. But Alex and Larissa remained, inseparable.
“Next week marks fifteen years since you walked into my life,” Alex said one evening, pulling her close.
“Don’t remind me,” Larissa laughed. “You’re my husband in every way but the paperwork.”
“Then let’s make it official. Do it properly.”
They married without fuss. No veil, no grand celebration. Just signatures, then stepping outside hand in hand, laughing. They were happy. And they had dreams.
After his grandmother’s death, they’d dreamed of opening a care home for the elderly. A derelict house on the edge of town, loans, government grants, their savings—they poured everything into it. By year’s end, it would open. But then the accident changed everything.
Now it all fell to Larissa. And she would fight—for their shared dream.
At the solicitor’s office, they asked:
“No other next of kin?”
“None,” she said firmly. “He had no children of his own, and he never adopted mine. His grandmother passed five years ago.”
“Parents?”
Larissa shrugged.
“His mother lost custody years ago. His father… Alex said he drifted in and out of his childhood. I never met him.”
She barely gave the conversation a second thought. Who could track such a man down after all this time?
But then came the pounding at the door.
“We know you’re in there!” a rough voice snarled. “Open up!”
Larissa froze. Peered through the peephole. Two figures—a man and a woman, unkempt, faces bloated.
“This is my son’s flat!” he bellowed. “Half of it’s mine!”
“Who are you?!” Larissa shouted, fingers trembling as she grabbed the pepper spray.
“John Wright—Alex’s father,” he spat. “And this is Nina. We’re here about the inheritance.”
“What inheritance?!” Larissa choked.
“Our Alex’s,” the woman said with a sickly show of sorrow.
They tried to push inside. Larissa blocked the door.
“You have no right!” she cried.
A neighbour stepped out of the lift. Larissa seized the moment, slamming the door shut. Curses and kicks followed. The neighbour called the police. The unwanted relatives left. But days later, the solicitor received a claim—John Wright demanded his share.
“This isn’t right!” Larissa fought back tears. “He was never part of his son’s life! Not a day, not a penny! He abandoned him! Alex and I built everything, we—”
“I know,” the solicitor’s assistant said gently. “But legally, he’s entitled. Speak to a barrister. It’s your only chance.”
So Larissa fought.
She gathered documents, tracked down witnesses, knocked on doors, hunting for anyone who remembered Alex’s childhood. She found records of unpaid child support. His grandmother’s old friend recalled the night John had stumbled in drunk, smashed a window, and struck the boy. The police had been called—Larissa even dug up the old report. His grandmother had started the process to strip his rights—paperwork buried among old photos.
The trial dragged on. But fate, as if hearing her prayers, intervened—John Wright drank himself to death. Nina vanished. And Larissa remained. The only one who’d truly stood by Alex.
By year’s end, just as they’d dreamed, the care home opened. A bronze plaque hung by the door: *Alexander Wright House of Care*.
Larissa stood on the steps, watching as a silver-haired woman smiled through the window. And she knew—Alex would have been proud. She’d done it. For both of them.
