The Son-in-Law Got More Than the Son
“What’s this supposed to mean?” Edgar waved the will in front of the solicitor’s face. “The flat goes to the son-in-law, the country house goes to the son-in-law, the car goes to the son-in-law! And what do I get? I’m the son! His own flesh and blood!”
“Edgar, please calm down,” the solicitor adjusted her glasses and gave the fuming man a stern look. “Your father had every right to distribute his estate as he saw fit.”
“But this isn’t right!” Edgar’s voice rose to a shriek. “Phillip married my sister just five years ago, and he walks away with more than me! Where’s the justice in that?”
Phillip sat in the corner of the office, fists clenched, his face pale and eyes red from sleepless nights. He stayed silent, but his expression betrayed the same torment Edgar felt.
“Edgar, stop shouting,” said Emily, Edgar’s sister and Phillip’s wife, quiet but firm. “Dad knew what he was doing.”
“Oh, shut it!” Edgar snapped. “I bet your husband talked him into it while he was ill.”
Phillip shot up from his chair.
“Say that again,” he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“I will! You took advantage of a sick old man! Wiggled your way in, pretended to care, all while eyeing the inheritance!”
“Edgar!” Emily stood. “How dare you? Phillip was at Dad’s side day and night in hospital. And where were you? His own son?”
“I was working! I’ve got my own family, kids! I couldn’t just drop everything and play nurse!”
“And Phillip could?” Emily stepped closer. “Does he not have a family? A job? He used his holiday time, took sick leave, stayed up nights!”
The solicitor sighed, tapping her pen on the desk.
“Please, take your disputes outside my office. The will is legally binding, properly executed. Your father was of sound mind when he signed it. Medical records confirm this.”
Edgar snatched the document and read it again, his voice trembling with fury.
“Three-bedroom flat in Kensington—Phillip William Carter. Country house in Surrey—Phillip William Carter. Nearly new Range Rover—Phillip William Carter.” His lip curled. “And Edgar James Whitmore gets a garage and some garden tools. Garden tools! Rakes and spades!”
“Plus fifty thousand pounds,” the solicitor added.
“Fifty grand!” Edgar laughed bitterly. “That flat’s worth two million today, the house another million, and the car’s almost brand new. And I get fifty grand? Like pocket change!”
Phillip finally spoke.
“Edgar, I never asked for any of this. When your father told me he wanted to change the will, I told him it should go to his children.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Edgar scoffed.
“What did Dad say to that?” Emily asked her husband.
Phillip exhaled heavily.
“He said, ‘Phillip, my son is blood, but you’ve been more like family. Edgar only turns up when he needs money. You just… cared.’ Those were his words, not mine.”
Edgar paled.
“He never said that.”
“He did,” Emily confirmed. “I heard him myself. Dad was hurt you never visited.”
“I had responsibilities! A job! Not everyone can spend their days fussing over old men!”
“No one forced Phillip to care,” Emily sat back down. “He did it because he loved Dad.”
Silence filled the room. The solicitor shuffled papers, eager to end this ugly affair.
“I’m contesting the will,” Edgar finally declared. “I’ll prove Dad wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Go ahead,” Phillip shrugged. “That’s your right.”
“Edgar, think about this,” Emily pleaded. “Do we really want to tear the family apart over money? Dad’s gone, but we’re still here.”
“Easy for you to say!” Edgar snarled. “Your husband’s sitting pretty, while I’m left with scraps! I’d planned to sell that flat, buy something bigger, pay for the kids’ education!”
“And you think we hadn’t planned anything?” Phillip went to the window. “You think I’m happy about this? That I wanted things to end like this between us?”
“Then renounce it,” Edgar spat. “If it bothers you so much.”
“I won’t,” Phillip said firmly. “Because it was your father’s last wish. And I respect that.”
Emily took her husband’s hand.
“Phillip’s right. Dad was sharp. He knew what he was doing.”
“Oh, he knew alright!” Edgar seethed. “Knew he could slight his own son, but not some outsider! Knew I’d take it because I’m his blood!”
“Or maybe he knew something else?” Emily said softly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She paused, then met his gaze.
“Maybe he remembered how you borrowed ten grand from him three years ago for a car?”
“What, a son can’t ask his father for a loan?”
“You promised to pay it back in six months. Three years later, still nothing.”
Edgar flushed.
“I was going to! Things came up—”
“Or when you took money for materials to fix his bathroom, then vanished for a month?”
“I did it eventually!”
“Six months later! Only after Dad threatened court!”
Phillip stayed silent, uncomfortable but unable to leave.
“Emily, don’t,” he murmured. “Let it go.”
“No! Let him remember how Dad called before his surgery, and you said you were busy and would ring back. But never did!”
“I forgot! Things happen!”
“How about missing his birthday? His name day? When was the last time you visited without wanting something?”
Edgar opened his mouth but said nothing. Emily pressed on.
“Phillip visited every week. Helped with chores, brought groceries, took him to doctors. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.”
“Fine!” Edgar threw up his hands. “I’m the bad son, he’s the saint. Got it. But I’m still contesting the will!”
He grabbed his papers and stormed out.
“Edgar, wait!” Emily called.
“What now?”
“We’re family. Let’s work this out. Phillip, talk to him.”
Phillip turned from the window.
“Edgar, I’m willing to compromise. Not legally, but as family. We could split the country house, or sell it and share the money.”
“And the flat?” Edgar demanded.
“I can’t. We’ve got nowhere else. We’re renting.”
“Of course. Keep the best bits for yourself.”
“Edgar!” Emily snapped. “Don’t be childish! Phillip’s trying!”
“I’m angry because an outsider got more than his own son!”
“Phillip’s not an outsider! He’s my husband, and he was like a son to Dad!”
“Exactly—like a son! I am his son!”
The solicitor stood.
“Please, I must close for the day. The documents are ready; take what’s yours.”
Edgar snatched his copy and slammed the door. Emily burst into tears.
“Now we’ve lost my brother,” she sobbed.
Phillip held her.
“He might calm down.”
“He won’t. He holds grudges.”
Outside, rain drizzled. Phillip opened an umbrella, shielding Emily.
“Was he right?” he asked quietly. “Should I have refused the inheritance?”
“No. Dad chose what was fair. He saw who truly cared.”
“But Edgar’s his son.”
“Being a son doesn’t mean automatic rights. You have to earn it.”
At the bus stop, Emily recalled how her father praised Phillip in his last months.
“He kept saying, ‘You’ve got a good man, Emily. A proper bloke.’ About Edgar, he’d say, ‘I spoiled him. Thought love came with blood. But love’s something you earn.'”
On the near-empty bus, she added,
“Know what he told me before he died?”
“What?”
“‘Take care of Phillip. Men like him are rare. He’ll stand by you. But flats and money—they’re not what matters.'”
Phillip swallowed hard.
“He was a good man.”
“And fair. He gave everyone what they deserved.”
At home, their six-year-old, Oliver, rushed to them.
“Mum, Dad, did Granddad really leave us the country house?”
“Yes, love,” Phillip lifted him.
“Why was Uncle Edgar shouting on the phone? I heard him telling Granny Margaret.”
Emily and Phillip exchanged looks. Margaret was Edgar’s and Emily’s mother, their father’s widow.
“What’d he say?” Emily asked.
“That Dad tricked Granddad and stole Uncle Edgar’s flat. That he’ll go to court.”
“Oliver, do your homework,” Phillip said. “Mum and I need to talk.”
After the boy left, Emily called her mother.
“Mum, did Edgar ring you?”
“Yes,” Margaret sighed.Despite the bitterness, time taught Edgar that love couldn’t be measured in pounds and pence, and the silence between them grew heavier than any inheritance.
