My aunt, Margaret Whitaker, left me her little cottage in a hamlet near York, but my parents, Thomas and Sarah, were far from pleased. They insisted I sell the house, hand over the proceeds, and only keep a modest portion for myself, declaring in unison that I had no claim to the property.
It is a strange truth, but those closest to us can turn out to be our fiercest foes. I have come to realise that my parents harbour a deep bitterness toward me; at times it feels as if they are not truly my family. My younger sister, Mabel, is a different story. Though we share a surname, we could not be more unlike one another, and I find little of her character to admire. Yet my parents have always held her up as the model child.
Mabel, at only thirteen, is habitually rude to elders and shows scant regard for herself. I am at a loss for a role model. Though I was the eldest Whitaker, I wore secondhand garmentsclothes Mabel had outgrownwhile she splurged on the latest fashions.
No one believed we were sisters. I was polite and tidy; she was brash and unrestrained. The only affection I felt came from Aunt Margaret, my father’s sister, who had no children of her own. She cared for me as if I were her own flesh and blood, and, truth be told, she was nearer to my heart than either my parents or my sister. We spent countless hours together, and she taught me everything I now know. In her cosy cottage I felt safe, and I never wished to return home.
Looking back, it is clear that Aunt Margaret raised me. A skilled seamstress, she passed her love of needlework down to me. Stricken with a terminal illness, she never rushed to start a family of her own. When I left school, she passed away, leaving her modest house to me.
The loss of a beloved person could not be soothed by inheritance alone. The cottage felt like a twist of fate, a chance to escape the cramped mire of my family life and finally enjoy some peace. The only thorn was my father’s belief that he, as the next of kin, was the rightful heir. I sensed a scandal on the horizon.
My fears were confirmed when my parents and Mabel learned of the bequest. They demanded I sell the cottage, hand over the money, and keep only a fraction for myself, insisting again that I had no right to the house.
When their arguments failed to sway me, they turned to pleas of pity, reminding me that we were a family. Yet the same family ties now seemed a hollow echo.
My mind is made up: I will sell the cottage, but only to purchase a home far away from them. Even with a gun at my back, I will not reveal my new address. I deserve a happy life without their interference.
I intend to settle the matter swiftly and begin anew.
