My aunt left me her little cottage, but my parents objected. They demanded that I sell it, hand the proceeds over to them and keep a share for myself, insisting in unison that I had no right to the property.
Sometimes the closest people turn out to be the fiercest enemies.
Its hard to admit, but my parents simply despise me. I often feel they are not really my family. My younger sister, however, is a different story. She and I could not be more unlike; I loathe her temperament and would never want to be her. Yet my parents have always held her up as the ideal child.
Emma is only in her eighth year at school, constantly rude to elders and careless about herself. I never know who to look up to Though I was the eldest in the household, Emma splurges on new frocks while I drift in secondhand clothes she has already outgrown.
Nobody believed we were sisters. I was polite and tidy, she vulgar and unrestrained. The only person who truly loved me was Aunt Margaret, my fathers sister. Childless, she raised me and, truth be told, she felt nearer to me than either my parents or my sister. We spent countless hours together; she taught me everything I now know. In her cosy cottage on the outskirts of York I felt at home and never wanted to return to the house on the hill.
Now I can say that Aunt Margaret raised me. A tailor by trade, she passed her love of stitching to me. She was terminally ill, never hurried to start a family of her own. When I finished school she died, leaving me her modest house.
The loss of her did not soothe the ache in my heart, but the inheritance felt like fates gift. At last I could claw my way out of that tangled nest and seek a quiet life. The only worry was that my father considered himself the direct heir of the cottage. I foresaw a scandal brewing.
My fears were confirmed when my parents and Emma learned the truth. They pressed me to sell the house, give them the money and keep a slice for myself, declaring again that I owned nothing of it.
When they saw their pleading failed to sway me, they resorted to guilt, reminding me that we were family, that blood ties should bind us. Yet the reminder only deepened the fracture.
My own verdict: I will sell the cottage, but only to buy a home as far away from them as the map allows. Even with a pistol at my side I will not disclose my new address. I deserve a happy life without them.
I want this chapter closed swiftly, so I can step into a new existence.
