The old, spacious flat buzzed with unusual activity. The doorbell chimed repeatedly as relatives streamed in. This time, a burly man in an expensive suit entered, his jacket straining over his protruding stomach.
A pale, plain woman offered him a sour smile, while the man on the sofa rose to greet him.
“Stephen! Didn’t think you’d come.” The men shook hands. “Sit down, tell me how life’s been.”
The woman scooted to the far end of the sofa, making room for the brothers.
“Could this really be Ivan’s wife? He had so many admirers, and ended up with someone like this…” Stephen couldn’t find the words.
The bell jangled again. All three turned toward the door, waiting for the last expected guest. A tall man in black trousers and a navy jumper stepped in, the crisp white shirt beneath accentuating his neat appearance.
Boris gave a curt greeting, scanned the room, and settled into a worn armchair in the opposite corner.
“Look at him, all prim and proper,” Stephen thought.
He recognised Boris instantly, though they hadn’t met in thirty years. Now all three brothers—three heirs—were gathered, like vultures circling carrion. Stephen had hoped no one else would come, least of all Boris.
They’d received invitations to bid farewell to Aunt Eleanor. “To bid farewell”—that’s how it was worded. And the address was included, just in case they’d forgotten.
Stephen had long since moved away with his family—a good job, a nice house, a car, two daughters, one already a grandmother. He didn’t need his aunt’s inheritance. He’d come out of curiosity.
The flat once seemed enormous to him—dark corners, towering clocks, heavy furniture.
When their father fell from scaffolding at the construction site and died, their mother withered from grief. How could she raise three boys alone? The youngest, Ivan, wasn’t even five. Life was hard. Then their mother’s estranged elder brother appeared, offering to take the older two boys for a while. Give her time to recover.
He and his wife had no children. Maybe she’d pull herself together and reclaim them later. He gave her money and took the boys. But she drowned in sorrow, drank herself to death, and was gone.
Aunt Eleanor was stern, cold. She fed and clothed them, tried to love them. Stephen, the eldest, saw his chance. He fawned over his uncle and aunt. Boris, the middle brother, withdrew. He refused to bond with their new family, skipped university, and moved back to their hometown. He took odd jobs, studied remotely. Their uncle sent money, but Boris always returned it with a note: “I don’t need it.”
Stephen married in his final year of university and moved to his wife’s parents in London. Ivan, the youngest, grew into a reckless rogue. Every family has one.
“The flat needs work. Could sell for a tidy sum after. That furniture is solid—proper vintage. And the Bohemian crystal in the cabinet. Probably savings too, unless they vanished in the financial crashes…” Stephen caught himself daydreaming at the wrong moment.
He stole glances at Boris, who sat motionless, legs crossed. Ivan whispered with his wife, eyeing his brothers too. “Boris was always the outcast, never in favour. Ivan will squander his share…” Stephen felt most deserving of the inheritance.
A pretty young woman had let them in—likely Aunt Eleanor’s nurse. Just as Stephen thought it, a wheelchair rolled in, carrying a frail old woman, her head slumped forward, a thick blanket covering her legs.
The nurse positioned the chair so she faced everyone. Against the old woman’s frailty, she looked even more striking. The brothers hadn’t expected their aunt to still be alive.
Stephen tried calculating her age. Surely over eighty. Why had he assumed she was dead? The telegram said, “to bid farewell,” so he’d assumed…
With uneasy curiosity, he studied her—creased face dotted with liver spots, wiry grey hair jutting in all directions, arthritic hands veined and gnarled on the armrests. Time had worn down the proud, elegant woman he remembered.
“Eleanor is pleased to see you all,” the nurse said brightly.
“At her request, I tracked you down. Apologies if the telegram was misleading. She wanted to settle the inheritance to avoid disputes later.”
“So our wishes will be considered?” Stephen perked up.
“Not exactly. Let’s have tea. Could you help?” She turned to Ivan’s wife.
“And you are?” Stephen cut in.
“This is Vera, my granddaughter,” Aunt Eleanor croaked suddenly.
Stephen stared at her, then at Boris, who sat unfazed. Ivan fidgeted.
“Another heir? That complicates things. Proof of lineage needed,” Stephen thought, eyeing Vera’s retreating back.
Once alone, the brothers and their aunt sat in silence.
“Thank you for coming,” she rasped. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Came for the money, not me. Fine. You’ll each get what you deserve. Just don’t fight at my grave if the will displeases you.”
“Is there even much to fight over?” Stephen asked.
“You’ve changed. Boris, glad you came, though you never cared for me. And Ivan, still the same scoundrel.”
“I may be old, but I’m not senile.” She bowed her head, eyes closing.
Stephen thought she’d drifted off. The brothers exchanged silent glances.
Soon, Vera called them to tea. Ivan bolted to the kitchen, relieved. Stephen and Boris stayed put.
“You never made peace?” Eleanor asked suddenly.
“Never quite managed,” Stephen answered for both.
“You’ve grown stout—that waistcoat’s ready to burst. Living well, then? Why didn’t you bring your wife?”
“Too busy—she’s a headmistress,” Stephen boasted. “Two daughters, both married. One’s made me a grandfather.”
“Brothers should stick together. You three are all I have left. And Vera. The flat goes to her. Don’t glare, Stephen. She cared for me ten years. Kept me alive. You? Not a single birthday card, no visits. I tried to fill your mother’s shoes. Failed. Boris, fine—but you, Stephen? Why?”
Stephen floundered for words.
“There’s the country house. Sturdy place, plenty of land. Remember how you loved it, Boris? And the vintage ’78 Mercedes in the garage. Mint condition.”
“No one’s slighted,” the old woman grinned, revealing yellowed but intact teeth.
Stephen shuddered. “Tough old bird. And her own teeth? Witchcraft.”
“Vera!” she called.
Vera appeared instantly.
“Tired. Bed,” Eleanor muttered.
Only then did Stephen notice the lights were on, night outside. A grandfather clock showed five to ten. He’d thought only two hours had passed. Time had slipped away like a cat’s tongue lapping cream.
Vera wheeled her out.
“I came to say goodbye, and she’s alive,” Stephen muttered.
Boris stayed silent.
“Well, if she’s announced the will, she’ll drop dead now, right?” Stephen joked. Boris didn’t laugh.
Vera settled the guests. Ivan left for a hotel.
Stephen lay awake, hearing phantom footsteps, whispers. He rose twice, finding only darkness. At dawn, he finally slept.
Morning brought eerie silence. No movement, no voices. “Just nerves. Shouldn’t have come.” He dressed in yesterday’s shirt reluctantly. The kitchen table was set, coffee hot. His stomach growled.
“Did Vera cook? She’s not bad. Too young for me, though. And I’m married…” He sighed, ate.
The doorbell rang. A stout doctor in a white coat arrived, Vera trailing.
“Is Eleanor alright?” Stephen asked, ignored.
He followed, but Vera blocked him.
“You can’t go in.” The door shut in his face.
He searched for Ivan and his wife—their room was empty.
The doctor reappeared.
“Leaving already? How is she?” Stephen demanded.
“She passed last night,” the doctor said, adjusting his glasses.
“What from?”
“Old age.”
“Gran didn’t want the morgue. Dr. Wilkins has handled everything. Funeral’s tomorrow,” Vera said, her eyes red.
“You mean she’ll stay here? That’s grotesque!” Stephen’s voice cracked.
“Stay at a hotel if you prefer.”
“Gladly.”
The next day, they gathered at the cemetery. Stephen felt no grief, only detachment. Ivan and his wife watched with mild interest. Boris, to Stephen’s surprise, wept.
Back at the flat, the wake was ready. Two elderly women bustled in the kitchen.
Ivan, tipsy, revealed they’d prepared the body—then cooked the meal. Stephen recoiled, refusing food.
At the solicitor’s office, the will was read. Vera inherited the flat. Stephen could take any furniture he liked—his eyes had lingered on the bureau and cabinet. The country house went to Boris, along with books from the library. The vintage Mercedes and jewellery went to Stephen “forAs Vera stepped onto the porch of the country house, she found Boris waiting with an unreadable expression, both of them realising—too late—that some legacies can never truly be divided.
