**Diary Entry – 12th June**
I stood by the window today, watching that woman hang laundry in the garden next door. A stranger—in the house that should’ve been mine. The house where I grew up, where I spent my youth, where Mother took her last breath.
“Lydia, what are you staring at?” My younger sister, Margaret, came in with shopping bags, setting them on the kitchen table. “Tea’s gone cold.”
“Just looking,” I sighed, stepping away. “Watching her play house.”
“Stop tormenting yourself,” she said, unpacking groceries. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat, and here I am, a burden.”
“Don’t be daft. You’re no bother, you know that.”
I sat down, lifting the lukewarm cup. Bitter tea—no sugar. We’ve been cutting back since losing the house. My pension’s barely enough for the two of us.
“Margaret, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” I stirred the tea absently.
“Of course. She said the house would be split between us.”
“Exactly. Half and half. Instead, it went to that Harriet woman.”
Margaret slumped into a chair. The will was a sore spot for both of us.
“We’ve talked this to death, Lydia. Mum wasn’t herself those last years. The doctors called it dementia.”
“But the solicitor was there! Witnesses, too. How could they let her give everything to an outsider?”
“Harriet isn’t an outsider. She cared for Mum’s niece when she was ill.”
“Cared for her!” I scoffed. “Popped in a few times with medicine. And what were we doing for thirty years? Neglecting her?”
Margaret stayed quiet. We both knew it wasn’t fair, but the courts had ruled. The house went to Harriet—some distant cousin who’d only appeared in the last few years.
A knock at the door cut through the tension.
“I’ll get it,” Margaret said.
Voices in the hall, then our niece, Emily—our late brother’s girl—walked in, kissing our cheeks.
“Hello, Aunties. How are you holding up?”
“Getting by,” I said. “And you? Work treating you alright?”
“Not bad. Planning a holiday to Brighton actually. I wanted to ask—do you need anything? I could help with a bit of money.”
Margaret and I exchanged glances. Emily’s always been kind, but this was especially touching.
“Thank you, love,” Margaret said. “We’re managing for now.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just say. Oh—I’ve got news. Remember Harriet, the one who got Gran’s house?”
My spine stiffened.
“What about her?”
“She’s selling it! Saw the listing yesterday. Wants four hundred thousand.”
“What?!” I nearly knocked over my cup. “Selling it?!”
“Afraid so. Says it’s too much upkeep, and she wants a flat in London.”
Margaret whispered, “Mum always said the house should stay in the family.”
“What family?” I laughed bitterly. “Some stranger gets her hands on it and does as she pleases.”
Emily shifted awkwardly.
“Aunt Lydia, maybe you could talk to her? See if she’d sell it to you for less?”
“With what money? My pension’s eight hundred a month, Margaret’s nine. Where would we get four hundred thousand?”
“Could you take out a loan?”
“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Margaret’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”
Emily sighed. “Such a shame. It’s a lovely house.”
“Was,” I echoed.
After she left, we sat in silence as the sunset painted the kitchen gold.
“You know what?” I said suddenly. “I’m going to see her. Harriet.”
“Why?” Margaret frowned.
“To talk. Maybe she’s got a conscience.”
“Lydia, don’t. You’ll only upset yourself.”
“What have I got to lose? The house isn’t mine anyway.”
The next morning, I put on my best dress and walked to Mum’s house—just two streets over, though each step felt heavier.
The place was a wreck. The fence sagged, the gate screeched, weeds choked the garden. My chest ached, remembering how pristine it used to be.
I knocked. Harriet answered—a stout woman in her forties, scowling.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Harriet, may I come in? I’d like to talk.”
“About what?”
“Please. It’s awkward standing here.”
She let me in grudgingly. The hall smelled of damp and unwashed dishes. My heart broke seeing the peeling walls, the grime.
“Kitchen’s through there,” she muttered.
It was worse. Dirty pans, taped-up windows, clutter everywhere.
“Sit down,” she said, nodding to a chair. “Make it quick.”
I sat gingerly. “Harriet, I heard you’re selling the house.”
“So?”
“It’s our childhood home. Margaret and I grew up here. Our parents lived here. It means everything to us.”
“And what’s that to me?”
“Would you consider selling it to us? We haven’t much, but we could arrange payments—”
She laughed—a harsh, mocking sound.
“Payments! From two old pensioners? Are you mad?”
“Harriet, please. We’ll agree to any terms.”
“Any terms?” She sneered. “Where were you when your mother was ill? Who took her to doctors? Bought her medicine?”
“We did what we could—”
“Popping in once a month with biscuits—that’s ‘help’? Who changed her sheets? Who sat up nights when she was delirious?”
I looked down. There was truth there. In the end, Mum needed constant care, and we had our own troubles—jobs, families, aches of our own.
“I know you did a lot for her,” I said quietly. “We’re grateful. But the house—”
“The house is mine by law!” she snapped. “Your mother was sound of mind when she signed that will. The solicitor checked, the doctors confirmed it. And now you come whinging because you lost out.”
“We’re not whinging. We’re asking—”
“You’re demanding! Acting like you’re owed something! Where were you when it mattered?”
She stormed around the kitchen, waving her arms.
“Know what, Lydia? I’ll sell to whoever pays most. You? Best start looking for a bedsit.”
I stood, shaking. “Forgive me for troubling you.”
“Don’t trouble me again. I’ve enough on my plate.”
Outside, I paused at the gate, staring at the house. When I was little, it seemed grand—well-kept, with apple trees and roses. Now it was a shadow, grieving better days.
I walked home slowly. Old Mrs. Wilkins from next door called out, “Lydia love, why the long face?”
“Went to see Harriet. Asked her not to sell.”
“And?”
“Refused. Says she’ll take the highest bidder.”
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head. “Your mum would be heartsick. That woman’s turned the place into a pigsty—literally. Keeps pigs in the garden. The stench!”
“Pigs?!” My stomach turned.
“Neighbors are up in arms. Your poor mum’s spinning in her grave.”
At home, Margaret gasped when I told her.
“Pigs?! In Mum’s garden?”
“And wants four hundred thousand. Who’d pay that for a ruin?”
Emily returned a week later with her husband, James.
“Aunties, we’ve been thinking,” she said. “We want to buy the house.”
“With what?” I asked.
James cleared his throat. “We’ve savings. Not four hundred thousand, but close to two-fifty. We could offer that.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She won’t,” James said firmly. “It’s been listed for months. Buyers take one look at the state of it and walk.”
Margaret frowned. “But why would you—?”
Emily squeezed her hand. “We’d buy it for you. So you can live there again.”
Tears welled up. “Love, we can’t accept that.”
“You can,” James said. “Call it justice.”
A month later, it was done. Harriet took the offer—desperate for cash, no doubt.
Moving day, I stood on the threshold, disbelieving. The house was ours again. A wreck, yes, but ours.
Emily hugged me. “Your share’s come home, Aunt Lydia.”
“Our share,” I corrected. “The family’s. As it should be.”
Inside, the smell of fresh paint and new wallpaper. James and his mates had already started repairs. Birds sang in the garden, sunlight streamed through the windows. The house was alive again—just
