Lydia Whitmore stood by the window, gazing at the neighbouring garden where a younger woman hung laundry on the 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 taken her last breath.
“Lydia, what are you staring at?” called her younger sister, Nina, stepping into the kitchen with grocery bags. “Your tea’s gone cold.”
“Just looking,” Lydia sighed, turning away. “Watching her make herself at home.”
“Stop tormenting yourself,” Nina said, unpacking the shopping. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat, and here I am, burdening you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You’re no trouble, and you know it.”
Lydia sat at the table and lifted the cooled cup. The tea was bitter—no sugar. Since losing the house, money had become scarce. Her pension was meagre, and now they had to make do sharing Nina’s small income.
“Nina, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” Lydia asked, stirring her tea absently.
“Of course. She said the house would go to both of us, equally.”
“Exactly. Equally. And yet it all went to that woman—Diana’s daughter.”
Nina sank into a chair. The will was a wound neither sister could ignore.
“Lydia, we’ve talked this to death. Mum wasn’t herself in those last years. The doctors said it was dementia.”
“But she didn’t write it alone! There was a solicitor, witnesses! How could they let her give everything to some outsider?”
“Diana isn’t an outsider. She looked after Mum’s niece when she was ill.”
“Looked after her!” Lydia scoffed. “A few months of handing her pills. And what were we doing for thirty years? Neglecting her?”
Nina stayed silent. Both knew it was unjust, but the courts had ruled: the house belonged to Diana, a distant cousin who’d appeared only in their mother’s final years.
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“I’ll get it,” Nina said.
Voices murmured in the hall, and then their niece, Emily—daughter of their late brother—walked in.
“Hello, Aunt Lydia, Aunt Nina,” she said, kissing their cheeks. “How are you holding up?”
“Getting by,” Lydia replied. “And you? How’s work?”
“Fine. Planning a holiday soon. Actually, I came to ask—do you need anything? I can spare a bit if you’re short.”
The sisters exchanged glances. Emily had always been kind, but the offer touched them deeply.
“Thank you, love,” Nina said. “We’re managing for now.”
“Well, if that changes, just say. But I’ve got news. Remember Diana, the one who got Gran’s house?”
Lydia stiffened.
“Of course. What about her?”
“She’s selling it! Saw the listing yesterday. Asking for four hundred thousand.”
“What?!” Lydia shot up from her seat. “Selling it?!”
“Apparently. Says it’s too much upkeep, and she wants a flat in the city.”
Nina whispered, “Mum always said the house should stay in the family.”
“What family?” Lydia gave a bitter laugh. “Some distant relation gets her hands on it and does as she pleases.”
Emily shifted uncomfortably.
“Aunt Lydia, maybe you could talk to her? See if she’d sell it to you for less?”
“With what money?” Lydia threw up her hands. “My pension’s eight hundred a month, Nina’s a thousand. Where would we get four hundred thousand?”
“Could you take out a loan?”
“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Nina’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”
Emily sighed. “It’s such a shame. It was a lovely house.”
“Was,” Lydia echoed.
After Emily left, the sisters sat in silence as the sunset painted the kitchen gold.
“You know what?” Lydia said suddenly. “I’m going to see her. Diana.”
“Why?” Nina frowned.
“To talk. Maybe she’ll listen to reason.”
“Lydia, don’t. You’ll only upset yourself.”
“What have I got to lose? The house isn’t mine anyway.”
The next morning, Lydia dressed in her best and walked to her childhood home—just two streets over, but every step weighed heavy.
The house looked neglected. The fence sagged, the gate creaked, weeds choked the garden. Lydia winced, remembering how pristine it had been when her mother was alive.
She knocked. Diana answered—a stout woman in her forties, her expression sour.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognising Lydia. “What do you want?”
“Hello, Diana. May we talk?”
“About what?”
“Inside, please. It’s awkward out here.”
Diana reluctantly let her in. The hall smelled of damp and unwashed dishes. Lydia’s heart ached at the sight of the peeling walls, once so familiar.
“Kitchen,” Diana muttered.
The room was a mess—dirty plates piled high, pots crusted with food, windows patched with tape.
“Sit,” Diana said, nodding at a chair. “Make it quick.”
Lydia sat, her voice quiet. “Diana, I heard you’re selling the house.”
“So?”
“This was our home. Nina and I grew up here. Our parents lived here. It means everything to us.”
“And what’s that to me?”
“Could you sell it to us instead? We haven’t much, but we could arrange instalments—”
Diana laughed, harsh and mocking. “Instalments? From penniless pensioners? Are you mad?”
“Please, Diana. We’ll agree to anything.”
“Anything? Where were you when your mother was ill? When she needed doctors? When she needed medicine?”
“We did what we could—”
“What you could!” Diana sneered. “Popping in once a month with groceries—that’s help? Who fed her? Who washed her sheets? Who stayed up nights when she was restless?”
Lydia looked down. There was truth in it. In those final years, their mother had needed constant care, and the sisters had their own struggles—jobs, families, failing health.
“I know you did a lot for Mum,” Lydia said softly. “And we’re grateful. But the house—”
“The house was left to me legally!” Diana snapped. “Your mother was sound of mind when she wrote that will. The solicitor checked, the doctors confirmed. And now you come demanding it back?”
“We’re not demanding. We’re asking—”
“You’re not asking! You’re entitled! Thinking you deserve everything! Where were you when it mattered?”
Diana stood, pacing the kitchen, arms flailing.
“You know what, Lydia? I’ll sell to the highest bidder. You can weep at my funeral if you like.”
Lydia rose. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Don’t trouble me again. I’ve enough on my plate.”
Outside, Lydia paused at the gate, looking back. As a child, the house had seemed grand and beautiful. Her mother had kept it immaculate—apple trees in the garden, flowers blooming.
Now it stood derelict, mournful, as if grieving its own decline.
She walked home slowly. A neighbour, old Mrs. Wilkins, spotted her.
“Lydia, love, why so glum?”
“Just been to see Diana. Asked her not to sell.”
“And?”
“She refused. Says she’ll sell to the highest bidder.”
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head. “Oh, dear. If your mother knew what’d become of her house…”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see? The place is falling apart. Diana’s got pigs in the shed, never takes the bins out. The neighbours complain.”
“Pigs?!” Lydia gasped.
“Aye. Says she’s fattening them. The stench! Your mother would turn in her grave.”
Lydia’s chest tightened. Her parents’ home—a pigsty!
“Mrs. Wilkins, are there buyers?”
“Not so far. Who’d pay that price? The place needs gutting, and Diana’s asking the moon.”
Back home, Lydia told Nina about Diana’s pigs.
“She’s keeping pigs?!” Nina cried. “In Mum’s house?”
“Worse—she wants four hundred thousand for it.”
“Who’d pay that for a ruin?”
“Exactly what Mrs. Wilkins said.”
The sisters sat in heavy silence, both thinking the same thing: it wasn’t right.
A week later, Emily returned—this time with her husband, Daniel.
“Aunt Lydia, Aunt Nina,” she said, sitting at the table, “we’ve been thinking. We should buy the house.”
“Buy it? With what?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “We’ve some savings. Not four hundred thousand, but enough. We could offer two-fifty.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She
