My Share Went to Another
Lydia Preston stood by the window, watching the young woman next door hang laundry on the washing line. A stranger in the house that should have been hers. The house where she’d grown up, where her youth had passed, where her mother had died.
“Lyd, what are you staring at?” called her younger sister, Nina, as she walked into the kitchen with shopping bags. “Your tea’s gone cold.”
“Just looking,” Lydia sighed, stepping away from the window. “Watching her act like she owns the place.”
“Stop torturing yourself,” Nina said, unpacking the groceries. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat, while I’m living off you.”
“Don’t be daft. You’re no burden, and you know it.”
Lydia sat at the table and picked up her lukewarm cup. The tea was bitter, unsweetened—they were saving sugar. Ever since losing the house, money had been tight. A small pension wasn’t much to live on, even for two.
“Nin, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” she asked, stirring her tea.
“Of course. She said the house would be split between us.”
“Exactly. Split. But instead, it’s all gone to Valerie’s girl.”
Nina sank heavily into a chair. The subject of the will still stung for both sisters.
“Lyd, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. Mum wasn’t herself in those last years. The doctors said it was Alzheimer’s.”
“But she didn’t write the will alone! There was a solicitor, witnesses. How could they let a sick woman sign everything over to a stranger?”
“Diane’s not a stranger. She looked after Mum’s niece when she was ill.”
“Looked after her!” Lydia scoffed. “Spent a few months giving her pills. And what about us? Thirty years of caring for Mum meant nothing?”
Nina stayed quiet. Both sisters knew it wasn’t fair, but there was nothing they could do. They’d lost the court case, and the house had gone to Diane—a distant cousin who’d only appeared in their lives in recent years.
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“I’ll get it,” Nina said.
Voices murmured in the hall before their niece, Emily—their late brother’s daughter—walked into the kitchen.
“Hello, Aunt Lydia, Aunt Nina,” she said, kissing them both on the cheek. “How are you?”
“Getting by,” Lydia replied. “And you? How’s work?”
“Not bad. Planning a holiday to the coast. Actually, I wanted to ask—do you need any money? I could help a bit.”
Nina and Lydia exchanged glances. Emily had always been kind, but this offer touched them deeply.
“Thanks, love,” Nina said. “We’re managing for now.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just say. But I’ve got some news. Remember Diane, the one who got Gran’s house?”
Lydia stiffened.
“Of course we remember. What about her?”
“She’s selling it! Saw the advert online yesterday. Asking for four hundred grand.”
“What?!” Lydia shot up from her seat. “Selling it?!”
“Yeah. Says the place is old, needs expensive repairs, and she wants a flat in the city.”
“No,” Nina whispered. “Mum always said the house should stay in the family.”
“What family?” Lydia gave a bitter laugh. “Some distant relative gets everything and does as she pleases.”
Emily shifted awkwardly.
“Aunt Lydia, maybe you could talk to her? She might sell it to you for less.”
“With what money?” Lydia threw up her hands. “My pension’s a thousand a month, Nina’s twelve hundred. Where would we get four hundred grand?”
“Couldn’t you take out a loan?”
“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Nina’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”
Emily sighed.
“Such a shame. It was a lovely house.”
“Was,” Lydia echoed.
After Emily left, the sisters sat in silence. The setting sun cast golden light across the kitchen.
“You know what?” Lydia said suddenly. “I’m going to see her. Diane.”
“Why?” Nina frowned.
“To talk. Maybe she’ll grow a conscience.”
“Lyd, don’t. You’ll only upset yourself.”
“What have I got to lose? The house isn’t mine anyway.”
The next morning, Lydia put on her best dress and walked to her childhood home. It wasn’t far—just two streets over—but every step felt heavy.
The house looked neglected. The fence sagged, the gate creaked, and weeds choked the garden. Lydia winced, remembering how tidy it had been when her mother was alive.
She knocked. Diane answered—a woman in her forties, heavyset, with a sour expression.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognising Lydia. “What do you want?”
“Good morning, Diane. Could we talk?”
“About what?”
“Please, let me in. It’s awkward standing here.”
Reluctantly, Diane stepped aside. The hall smelled musty, with dirty dishes stacked in corners. Lydia’s heart ached at the sight of the once-familiar walls, now grimy and peeling.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Diane muttered.
The kitchen was a mess. Dishes piled up, pots crusted on the stove, windows patched with tape.
“Sit,” Diane said, nodding at a chair. “Make it quick—I’ve got things to do.”
Lydia sat gingerly.
“Diane, I heard you’re selling the house.”
“So?”
“This was our family home. Nina and I grew up here. Our parents lived here. It means a lot to us.”
“And?”
“Would you consider selling it to us? I know money’s tight, but we could arrange payments—”
Diane laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound.
“Payments! From two broke pensioners? Are you serious?”
“Please, Diane, don’t be cruel. We’ll agree to anything.”
“Anything?” Diane sneered. “Where were you when your mum was ill? Who took her to the doctors? Who paid for her medicine?”
“We helped when we could—”
“Helped!” Diane mocked. “Popping in once a month with a bag of shopping—that’s help? Who fed her every day? Who washed her sheets? Who stayed up nights when she was restless?”
Lydia looked down. There was truth in Diane’s words. In those last years, their mother had needed constant care, and the sisters had their own struggles—jobs, families, their own health.
“I know you did so much for Mum,” Lydia said quietly. “We’re grateful. But the house—”
“The house was left to me legally!” Diane cut in. “Your mum was sound of mind when she made the will. The solicitor checked, the doctors confirmed it. Now that you’ve lost out, you come begging?”
“We’re not begging. We’re asking—”
“You’re demanding! Acting like you’re owed something! Where were you when it mattered?”
Diane stood, pacing the kitchen, arms flailing.
“Know what, Lydia? I’ll sell to the highest bidder. You’d better start looking for another place to live. Save your tears for my funeral.”
Lydia rose.
“Sorry to trouble you.”
“Don’t trouble me again. I’ve got enough problems.”
Outside, Lydia paused by the gate, looking back. As a child, the house had seemed grand and beautiful. Her mother had kept it immaculate—apple and cherry trees in the garden, flowers blooming in the beds.
Now it looked derelict, grieving for better days.
She walked home slowly. Old Mrs. Harris, a neighbour, spotted her.
“Lydia, love, why the long face?”
“Just been to see Diane. Asked her not to sell the house.”
“And?”
“She refused. Says she’ll sell to the highest bidder.”
Mrs. Harris shook her head.
“Ah, pet. Your mum would be heartbroken.”
“Why?”
“Look at the place! Diane’s turned the shed into a pigsty, never takes the bins out. The neighbours are complaining.”
“Pigs?!” Lydia gasped.
“Aye. Says she’s fattening them for meat. The stink—your mum would be rolling in her grave.”
Lydia’s chest tightened with outrage. Turning their family home into a farmyard!
“Mrs. Harris, has anyone shown interest in buying it?”
“Not yet. Who’d pay that price? The place needs rebuilding, and Diane’s asking the earth.”
Back home, Lydia told Nina about the visit.
“Pigs?!” Nina gasped. “In Mum’s house?”
“Exactly. And she wants four hundred grand.”
“Who’d pay that for a ruin?”
“Mrs. Harris
