“Who Do You Think You Are to Tell Me What to Do!” — Mrs. Zoe Peterson Threw a Rag Right in Her Daughter-in-Law’s Face. “You Live in My House and Eat My Food!” Tamara Wiped Her Face and Clenched Her Fists. Three Months Married, and Every Day Feels Like a Battlefield. “I Cook, I Clean, I Do the Laundry! What More Do You Want?” “What I Want Is for You to Keep That Mouth Shut! Stray! Turned Up Here with Someone Else’s Child!” Little Ellie Peered Fearfully Out from Behind the Door. Just Four Years Old and Already Knows—Grandma’s Mean. “Mum, That’s Enough!” — Stephen Came in from the Yard, Dirty After Work. “What Now?” “She’s Rude to Me! I Told Her the Soup’s Too Salty, and She Answers Back!” “The Soup’s Fine,” Tamara Said Wearily. “You’re Just Picking on Me.” “There! You Hear That?” Zoe Wagged Her Finger in Tamara’s Face. “Says I’m Picking on Her! In My Own Home!” Stephen Moved to His Wife and Put an Arm Around Her. “Mum, Stop. Tamara’s Worked Hard All Day, and You Just Nag.” “Oh, So Now You’re Against Your Own Mother! I Raised You, Fed You, and This Is What I Get!” The Old Woman Stormed Out, Slamming the Door. Silence Fell in the Kitchen. “I’m Sorry,” Stephen Stroked Tamara’s Hair. “She’s Gotten Impossible as She’s Aged.” “Stephen, Maybe We Should Rent Somewhere? Even Just a Single Room?” “With What Money? I’m a Tractor Driver, Not a CEO. Barely Enough to Eat as It Is.” Tamara Snuggled Into Her Husband. He Was Good, Kind, Hardworking. But His Mother—She Was a Real Nightmare. They’d Met at a Village Fair. Tamara Sold Her Knitted Goods, Stephen Was Buying Socks. They Got Talking. He Said Right Away He Didn’t Mind She Had a Child—He Loved Kids. Their Wedding Was Modest. From Day One, Mrs. Zoe Peterson Disliked Her Daughter-in-Law. Tamara Was Young, Beautiful, With a University Degree in Accounting, While Her Son Was an Ordinary Tractor Driver. “Mum, Come for Supper,” Little Ellie Tugged at Her Mother’s Skirt. “Just a Minute, Sweetheart.” At Dinner, Mrs. Peterson Pushed Her Plate Away with a Flourish. “I Can’t Eat This. It’s Fit for Pigs the Way You Cook.” “Mum!” Stephen Pounded the Table with His Fist. “Stop It!” “What? I’m Just Being Honest! Look at Sylvia—What a Homemaker! But This One!” Sylvia, Mrs. Peterson’s Daughter, Lived in the City and Only Visited Once a Year. The House Was in Her Name, Though She Hardly Lived There. “If You Don’t Like My Cooking, You Can Cook for Yourself,” Tamara Said Calmly. “Oh, You!” The Mother-in-Law Jumped Up. “I’ll—” “That’s Enough!” Stephen Stood Between the Two Women. “Mum, Calm Down or We’re Leaving. Right Now.” “Where to? Out on the Street? The House Isn’t Yours!” It Was True. The House Belonged to Sylvia. They Were Allowed to Stay Out of Pity. * A Precious Burden Tamara Couldn’t Sleep That Night. Stephen Held Her Close and Whispered: “Hold On, Love. I’ll Buy a Tractor. Start a Business. We’ll Save Up for Our Own Home.” “Stephen, That’s So Expensive…” “I’ll Find an Old One and Fix It Up. I Know How. Just Keep Believing in Me.” In the Morning, Tamara Woke Up Feeling Sick. She Rushed to the Bathroom. Could It Be? The Test Showed Two Lines. “Stephen!” She Burst Into the Room. “Look!” He Rubbed His Eyes Sleepily, Looked at the Test, and Suddenly Jumped Up, Spinning Her Around. “Tamara! Darling! We’re Having a Baby!” “Shhh! Your Mother Will Hear!” But It Was Too Late. Mrs. Peterson Stood in the Doorway. “What’s All the Noise?” “Mum, We’re Having a Baby!” Stephen Beamed. The Mother-in-Law Curled Her Lip. “And Where Will You All Live? It’s Crowded Enough With You Here. If Sylvia Returns, You’ll Be Out on Your Ear.” “We Won’t Be Thrown Out!” Stephen Frowned. “This Is My Home Too!” “It’s Sylvia’s House, Remember? I Signed It Over To Her. You’re Just Lodgers.” The Joy Evaporated. Tamara Slumped onto the Bed. A Month Later, Tragedy Struck. Tamara Was Lifting a Heavy Bucket (No Running Water in the House). Sudden Pain, Bloodstains on Her Trousers… “Stephen!” She Cried. A Miscarriage. The Doctor Said It Was Overexertion, Stress. She Needed Rest. But How Do You Rest Living With a Mother-in-Law Like That? Tamara Lay in the Hospital, Staring At The Ceiling. She Couldn’t Take Any More. She Wouldn’t. “I’m Leaving Him,” She Told Her Friend Over The Phone. “I Can’t Go On.” “Tamara, What About Stephen? He’s Good.” “He Is. But His Mother… She’ll Be The Death Of Me.” Stephen Rushed To Her After Work, Covered In Dirt And Exhaustion, A Bunch Of Daisies In Hand. “Tamara, My Love, I’m So Sorry. It’s All My Fault. I Didn’t Take Care Of You.” “Stephen, I Just Can’t Live There Any More.” “I Know. I’ll Take Out a Loan. We’ll Rent a Flat.” “They Won’t Lend To You. Your Wage Is Too Low.” “They Will. I’ve Found a Second Job. Night Shift At The Farm. By Day On The Tractor, By Night Milking Cows.” “Stephen, You’ll Collapse!” “I Won’t. I’d Move Mountains For You.” Tamara Was Discharged a Week Later. At Home, Mrs. Peterson Met Her At The Door: “Well, Didn’t Keep It, Did You? I Knew It—Too Feeble.” Tamara Walked Past In Silence. Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t Worth Her Tears. Stephen Worked Like a Man Possessed. Tractor By Day, Farm By Night. He Slept Three Hours A Night. “I’ll Take a Job Too,” Tamara Said. “There’s an Opening For An Accountant.” “The Pay’s Pennies.” “Pennies Add Up.” So She Took The Job. Mornings, She Took Ellie To Nursery. Then Off To The Office. Evenings, Collected Her Daughter, Cooked, Did Laundry. Mrs. Peterson’s Nagging Continued, But Tamara Learned To Tune Her Out. * Their Own Corner and a New Life Stephen Continued Saving For The Tractor. He Found An Old, Broken-Down One For Next To Nothing. “Take The Loan,” Tamara Said. “Fix It, We’ll Earn Our Own Money.” “What If It Doesn’t Work?” “It Will. You’re Brilliant With Your Hands.” The Loan Came Through. They Bought The Tractor. It Sat In The Yard Like a Heap of Junk. “Well That’s Just Grand!” Mrs. Peterson Laughed. “Junkyard’s Where That Belongs!” Stephen Worked On The Engine In Silence. Night After Night, After The Farm, Only the Flashlight for Company. Tamara Helped—Handing Tools, Holding Parts. “Go Rest. You’re Exhausted.” “We Started This Together, We’ll Finish Together.” A Month Went By. Then Two. The Neighbours Laughed—Fool Of A Tractor Driver, Buying a Heap of Scrap. But One Morning, The Engine Roared To Life. Stephen Sat At The Wheel, Not Quite Believing Their Luck. “Tamara! It’s Running! It Works!” She Rushed Out, Throwing Her Arms Around Him. “I Knew You Could Do It! I Always Believed In You!” The First Job—Ploughing Mr. Smith’s Vegetable Patch. Second, Delivering Firewood. Third and Fourth—The Money Started Coming In. Then, Tamara Once More Felt Sick In The Mornings. “Stephen, I’m Pregnant Again.” “This Time, You Don’t Lift a Thing, Do You Hear? I’ll Do It All!” He Wrapped Her In Cotton Wool. No Heavy Lifting. Mrs. Peterson Grumbled: “Delicate, Aren’t We! I Had Three Kids and Never Complained! And Her?” But Stephen Was Adamant. No More Overdoing It. In The Seventh Month, Sylvia Arrived with Her Husband and Big Plans. “Mum, We’re Selling The House. Got a Good Offer. You’re Moving In With Us.” “And Them?” Mrs. Peterson Nodded To Stephen and Tamara. “Well, What About Them? They’ll Have To Find Somewhere Else.” “Sylvia, I Was Born Here, This Is My Home!” Stephen Protested. “So? It’s My House. Did You Forget?” “When Do We Have To Leave?” Tamara Asked Calmly. “A Month.” Stephen Boiled With Rage. Tamara Rested A Hand On His Shoulder—Quiet, Don’t Argue. That Evening, They Sat Together In Silence. “What Are We Going To Do? The Baby’s Due Soon.” “We’ll Find Somewhere. As Long As We’re Together, That’s What Matters.” Stephen Worked Like A Madman. The Tractor Roared From Dawn To Dusk. In A Week, He Made As Much Money As Usually Took A Whole Month. Then Mr. Michaels, A Farmer From The Next Village, Rang. “Stephen, Selling My Cottage. It’s Old, But Solid. Cheap, Too. Want To Take A Look?” They Went That Very Day. The Cottage Was Indeed Old, But Sturdy—Three Rooms, A Range, A Shed. “How Much?” Mr. Michaels Named His Price. They Had Enough For Half. “How About Instalments?” Stephen Suggested. “Half Now, The Rest In Six Months.” “All Right. You’re A Reliable Lad.” They Came Home Elated. Mrs. Peterson Met Them At The Door: “Where Have You Two Been? Sylvia’s Brought The Papers!” “That’s Fine,” Tamara Said Calmly. “We’re Moving Out.” “Where To? The Pavement?” “To Our Own Place. We Bought It.” The Mother-In-Law Froze. Didn’t Expect That. “Lying! Where’d You Get The Money?” “We Earned It,” Stephen Hugged His Wife. “While You Were Wagging Your Tongue, We Were Grafting.” They Moved Within Two Weeks. Not Many Possessions—What’s Yours In Someone Else’s House? Ellie Ran Round The Rooms, The Dog Barked. “Mum, Is This Really Our House?” “It Is, Darling. Genuinely Ours.” Mrs. Peterson Arrived The Next Day. She Stood On The Threshold. “Stephen, I’ve Thought It Over. Maybe You Could Take Me In? The City Air’s Stifling.” “No, Mum. You Made Your Choice. Live With Sylvia.” “But I’m Your Mother!” “A Mother Doesn’t Call Her Grandchild ‘Someone Else’s’. Goodbye.” He Closed The Door. Hard, But The Right Thing To Do. Matthew Was Born That March. A Strong, Healthy Boy. He Yelled Loudly and Made His Demands Known. “Just Like His Dad!” The Midwife Laughed. Stephen Cradled His Son, Afraid To Breathe. “Thank You, Tamara. For Everything.” “No, Thank You. For Not Giving Up On Us. For Believing.” They Settled Into Their New Home. Planted A Garden, Got Chickens. The Tractor Earned Its Keep. Evenings Were Spent On The Porch; Ellie Played With The Dog, Matthew Slept In His Cot. “You Know What?” Tamara Said One Sunset. “I’m Happy.” “Me Too.” “Remember How Bad Things Once Were? I Thought I Would Break.” “You Didn’t. You’re Strong.” “We’re Strong—Together.” The Sun Set Behind The Woods. The House Smelled Of Fresh Bread And Milk. A Real Home. Their Home. A Place Where No One Could Insult, Throw Them Out, Or Call Them Outsiders. A Place To Live, Love, And Raise Their Children. A Place To Be Happy. *** Dear Readers, Every Family Faces Their Own Trials, And Overcoming Them Isn’t Always Easy. Tamara and Stephen’s Story Is Like a Mirror—We See Both Our Struggles And The Strength That Helps Us Rise Above. So Life Goes On: From Hardship To Joy, Then On Again—Until Fate Smiles. What Do You Think—Should Stephen Have Broken Away From His Mother Sooner? Or Was He Right To Persevere for So Long? And What Does ‘Home’ Mean To You—Just Bricks And Mortar, Or The Warmth Of Family? Share Your Thoughts—Life Is A School, And Every Lesson Matters!

Author Walton MerrittReading 11 minViews 1

And who do you think you are, telling me what to do! barked Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, flinging a wet cloth straight into my wifes face. Living under my roof, eating my food!

Rebecca wiped her face, her fists clenched. Three months married, yet every day felt like a fresh battlefield.

I do the cleaning, the cooking, the washing! What more do you want from me?

Want you to keep your mouth shut, thats what! Harlot! Swanning in here with a child that isnt even ours!

Little Lucy peered nervously from behind the kitchen door. Only four, yet shed already learned that Grandma could be awfully nasty.

Mum, thats enough! I came in from the garden, still in my muddy work boots. What are you shouting about now?

Your darling wife, thats what! Cheeky as anything! I tell her the soups too salty and she bites my head off!

The soups perfectly fine, Rebecca said, exhausted. You just pick at me on purpose.

See? Did you hear that? Mum jabbed her finger at her. Says Im picking on her. In my own house!

I walked over and put my arm around Rebeccas shoulders.

Mum, leave it. Rebeccas done everything for the house today. You’re always having a go.

Thats it, then! Set against your own mother! Raised you, and now this!

She stormed out, slamming the door. The kitchen was smothered in heavy silence.

Im sorry, I stroked Rebeccas hair gently. Mums impossible these days.

Steven, maybe we should look for somewhere to rent? Even just a room?

On what money? Im a farmhand, not a bank manager. We barely scrape by as it is.

Rebecca leant her head on my chest. A good woman, kind and hard-working. Only her mother-in-law turned her life upside down.

Wed met at the village fete Rebecca was selling knitted scarves; I was buying socks. We struck up a chat. I told her straight away I didnt care she had a child from before I loved kids.

The wedding was a simple do. Mum took against her from the word go. Young, attractive, university-educated accountant. And I was only a farmhand.

Mum, dinners ready, little Lucy tugged at her skirt.

Ill be there, darling.

At supper, Mum pushed her plate across the table with a dramatic sigh.

Inedible. You cook like its pigswill.

Mum! I banged my fist. Thats enough!

Just telling it how it is! You should see how clever Susan is! Not like her!

Susan was Mums daughter from her first marriage. Lived in London, only visited once a year. The house was in her name, even though she never lived here.

If you dont like my cooking, you can always cook for yourself, said Rebecca softly.

You ungrateful little Mum shrieked.

Enough! I stepped between them. Mum, calm down or were leaving. Tonight.

Where would you go, then? Out on the street? The house isnt yours, remember!

That was true. We lived here only at Susans pleasure.

***

A Weighty Burden

That night, Rebecca couldnt sleep. I wrapped my arms round her and whispered,

Hold on, love. Ill save for a tractor, start my own job, and well afford our own place.

Stevie, you know a tractor costs a fortune

Ill buy an old one, do it up. I know what Im doing. Just have faith.

In the morning, Rebecca rushed to the bathroom, feeling sick. Surely not?

The pregnancy test showed two lines.

Steven! she burst into the room. Look at this!

I blinked the sleep from my eyes, saw the test stick and suddenly, I was dizzy with happiness.

Rebecca! My love! Were having a baby!

Shh! Mum will hear!

Too late. Mum was standing at the door.

Whats all this racket?

Mum, were going to have a baby! I beamed.

She curled her lip.

And where do you plan on living, eh? Cant fit a baby in here. Susan will have you out the door in no time.

She wont! I squared up to her. I was born here too.

Doesnt matter, boy. I put the house in her name. Youre just tenants now.

The joy in the room vanished. Rebecca sat down hard.

A month later, disaster struck. She was carrying a heavy bucket up from the well we had no taps indoors. Suddenly, she doubled over in pain; her trousers stained with bright red

Steven! she shouted.

It was a miscarriage. The doctor said it was caused by overexertion and stress. She needed rest.

How could anyone rest in this house?

Rebecca lay in hospital, staring at the ceiling. That was it she couldnt go on.

Im leaving, she told her friend on the phone. I just cant take it anymore.

Becky, but what about Steven? He loves you.

Hes a good man. But his mother Shell be the end of me.

After work, I dashed to the hospital, mucky, exhausted, bouquet of cow parsley in hand.

Rebecca, my darling, forgive me. Im so sorry. I should have protected you.

Steven, I cant stay there any longer.

I understand. Ill take out a loan. Well rent a place.

Theyll never lend you enough. Your pays too low.

Ill get a second job. Night shifts at the dairy. Days on the farm, nights milking cows.

Stevie, youll make yourself ill!

Ill manage. For you, Id move mountains.

Rebecca came home a week later. Mum met her on the doorstep with her usual warmth:

Didnt look after yourself, did you? I knew you were weak.

Rebecca brushed past her without a word. Not worth giving her the satisfaction.

I was working from dawn till midnight. Farm in the morning, dairy at night, snatching three hours sleep.

Ill find a job too, Rebecca said. Theres an opening at the estate office for an accountant.

Wont pay much.

Every little helps.

She started work. Mornings, she took Lucy to nursery, then to the office. Evenings, collect Lucy, make dinner, do the laundry. Mum was just as harsh, but Rebecca seemed not to hear her any more.

***

A Place to Call Our Own

I was still saving up for the tractor. Eventually, I found a battered, rusty heap. The owner was practically giving it away.

Take out a loan, Rebecca urged. Fix it up, well bring in extra cash.

What if its hopeless?

Nonsense. Youve got magic hands.

We got the loan. The tractor sat on the drive a pile of scrap, as everyone said.

Well, thisll be good for nothing but the tip! Mum scoffed.

I said nothing, dismantling the engine late into the night, torch in hand. Rebecca fetched tools, held bits steady.

Go to bed, love. Youre knackered.

We started this together; we finish it together.

A month passed, then two. Neighbours laughed There goes daft Steven and his wreck of a tractor.

But one morning it sprang to life. I of all people couldnt believe it.

Rebecca! Its running! It works!

She threw her arms round me in the yard.

I knew youd do it! Ive always believed in you!

First job tilling Mr. Higgs garden. Next delivering logs for Mrs. Fuller. Then more and more. The pounds started coming in.

Then, just as things brightened, Rebecca felt sick again.

Steven, I think Im expecting.

No heavy lifting this time! Promise me! Ill do it all!

I treated her like glass, never letting her carry so much as a bucket. Mum grumbled:

Soft as feathers! Had three myself and got on just fine! Not like her!

But I wouldnt budge. No risks.

At seven months, Susan turned up with her husband and big news.

Mum, were putting the house on the market. Got a great offer. Youll come and stay with us.

And them? she nodded towards us.

Who? Steven and Rebecca? Let them sort themselves out!

Susan, I was born here! This is my home! I protested.

Yes, but the deeds are in my name, arent they?

Whens the move? Rebecca asked quietly.

One month.

I steamed; Rebecca gently steadied my arm quietly, best not to argue.

That night, wrapped up together, we weighed our options.

What now? Theres a baby on the way.

Well find somewhere. So long as were together.

I threw myself into work. The tractor chugged from dawn to dusk. A weeks takings equalled my old monthly wage.

Then Mr. Morgan, from the next parish, called up.

Steven, Im selling my cottage. Old but sound. Wont want much for it. Fancy a look?

We drove over. The place was elderly but solid. Wood stove, three rooms, a ramshackle shed.

Whats the price?

He gave it. We could cover half.

Will you let us pay in instalments? Half now, half in six months?

Youre reliable. I trust you.

We came home as light as air. Mum was waiting.

Where have you been? Susans brought round the paperwork!

Thats fine, Rebecca answered evenly. Were moving out.

Where to? The street?

To our own place. We bought a house.

She gaped.

Rubbish! Whered you get the money?

We earned it, I said, hugging Rebecca. While you were wagging your tongue, we worked.

We moved within two weeks. Not much to pack what do you own when youve lived on someone else’s charity?

Lucy ran wild in the rooms, the terrier barked.

Mum, is this really ours?

It is, sweetheart. Ours for real.

Mum visited a day before we left.

Steven, Ive been thinking Maybe I could come with you? Londons so stuffy.

No, Mum. You made your choice. Live with Susan.

But Im your mother!

A mother doesnt call her granddaughter a stranger. Goodbye.

I closed the door. It weighed on me, but it was right.

Matthew arrived in March. A sturdy, healthy boy hollering for England.

Hes all you, the midwife laughed.

I held my son and barely breathed.

Thank you, Rebecca. For everything.

No, thank you. For not giving up. For believing.

We settled in, little by little. Dug a veggie patch, bought a few hens. The tractor kept us afloat. In the evenings, wed sit together on the porch. Lucy played with the dog; Matthew dozed in his crib.

You know what, Rebecca said, Im happy.

Me too.

You remember the worst times? I never thought Id survive it.

But you did. Youre strong.

Were strong. Together.

The sun dipped behind the woods. The house smelt of bread and milk. A real home our home.

Where no one would sneer or threaten to throw us out.

Where we could love, raise our children, and just be.

Where we could finally be happy.

***

I suppose every family faces its rough patches, and few are easy to overcome. Ours, the story of Rebecca and me, is like a mirror to all the suffering and hope that keeps people moving forward.

So here we go from hardship to happiness, then back to uncertainty, until luck finally relents.

But what would you have done, stuck in my shoes? Waited it out, or cut loose and started searching straight away for your own corner? And to you, what makes a true home a set of bricks and mortar, or the warmth you share inside it?

Id love to hear your thoughts, because life is one long lesson, and every lesson counts.

Looking back, Ive learned that sometimes you have to cut ties, work yourself to the bone, and trust those you love because only together do you truly build a home.

All’s Fair in the Fight for the Family Fortune The entire family had gathered together, though the real reason—as usual—was financial, thinly disguised as a family dinner. Lydia, daughter of Granny Thelma and mother to Katie and Arthur, fiddled with her mother’s old handkerchiefs—the same ones Granny used to hide her savings. Granny was no longer able to manage her own affairs; she remembered nothing and recognised no one, but Lydia, by force of habit, continued tucking her pension into those same cloths. “Oh, look,” Lydia lamented, turning to the family, “they’ve gone missing again. Ten thousand, at least. I couldn’t have made a mistake—I counted it myself! Where have they gone? Mum, do you remember how much there was?” Granny Thelma turned—not to her daughter, but to the portrait of her late husband. “Oh, Pete… how lovely,” she murmured, gazing at granddaughter Jenny. “And you, dear, leave my sweets for the guests… Where’s Artie? At school?” Lydia rolled up the thousand-pound notes. Her mother certainly couldn’t remember how much there was. But Lydia was certain—someone was stealing them. An unthinkable idea, because only family ever came around, but somebody had to be nicking them! And from an old lady, too… Arthur arrived, just as Granny had been asking after him. “What’s this, a wake?” he joked, tossing his car keys aside. Lydia, his mother, choked out: “Arthur, it’s awful! The money! Granny’s money’s missing again. I’ve been putting her pension in this cabinet for months. Someone’s taking it!” Arthur looked around the room with suspicion—his mum trusted everyone, Arthur trusted no one. “Money disappearing, eh?” he squinted, “I bet I know right where it’s going!” He strode to the hall, grabbed Katie’s striped tote bag, and before Katie could blink, unzipped it and dumped the contents onto the old plastic tablecloth. Out tumbled lipstick, keys, mirror—and money. Wads of crumpled notes—five grand in five-hundreds. “Look!” Arthur exclaimed, holding up a note. “I dropped her bag just now, reached to pick it up—and out spilled these! And don’t these look familiar?” Auntie Gail, who’d been munching salad without blinking, immediately choked on her mouthful. If you looked closely at each note, you could see a faint blue ballpoint pen line. “Remember last month, when Mum was counting the money and Ivan scribbled on it by mistake?” Arthur went on. “These are those five-hundred notes from Granny’s pension!” All eyes turned on Katie. Frozen until then, she flinched. “Arthur, what are you doing?” “Me? Nothing! I told you—the bag fell as I passed, and there they were! Very familiar money, too!” Katie realised it was pointless to challenge him; she had to defend herself. “It wasn’t me!” she cried, knocking the table as she shot to her feet. Even Granny turned at the commotion. “Who’s making a ruckus?” asked Granny Thelma. “Where are my slippers?” Everyone’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Katie, darling,” Lydia stood, “how could you? Why? You have a job, I help you out… How could you steal from your own grandmother?” “Mum, it wasn’t me! I didn’t take anything!” “Who else?” Arthur pressed, “You’re the only one always around, caring for Granny, as you keep saying. No one else has access. Mum would never do it. That leaves you.” Katie backed away as if they might hit her. “I swear I never touched a thing!” She glanced at her mother, hoping for belief, but Lydia looked at her as though she were a monster. “You’re lying,” Lydia whispered. “How could you…” “I love Granny!” Katie cried, tears spilling over. “I only came to help her! I swear I didn’t take the money!” But all the evidence was stacked against her. The money had come from her bag. No other suspects. “That’s that,” Arthur declared, “Sad, Katie. Really sad. You could’ve just asked. But stealing from a helpless old lady… No one expected that from you.” That night, they kicked Katie out, and her life was turned upside-down. No one understood, no one wanted to listen. Even Lydia, regretful later, begged the family to be kinder, but… “Don’t let her back, Lydia,” hissed Auntie Gail on the phone. “She’s a disgrace! Granny may not remember, but what if she knew what Katie’s become…” Lydia obeyed. She barely spoke to her daughter. When Katie rang, Lydia gave only clipped answers: busy, later, not now. Katie tried to fight back. She called her relatives from different numbers, but as soon as they caught on, they hung up. Katie launched her own investigation, which quickly fizzled; nobody would talk or let her near Granny again. Eventually, she managed to get Lydia to meet. “Mum, please,” Katie begged, “I know it sounds like an excuse, but I swear—I didn’t do it! Why won’t you believe me?” It was hardest on Lydia; after all, Katie was her daughter. “Katie… it pains me too. But the money was with you. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. If I’d been the only one to find out, maybe we could forget it, but the rest of the family won’t. It’s hard for me too. Granny did so much for you.” “But I’m not guilty! Maybe it fell in there before, from another bag? Maybe someone else…” “Enough!” Lydia snapped. “You’re my daughter and I want to believe you, but the facts! The facts say you’re a thief!” With that, Lydia left Katie freezing in the cold. Katie didn’t even get to say goodbye to Granny. But she waited until the dust settled, until everyone left, then tried Granny’s flat, hoping her mother would be there. Lydia, though cold, would sometimes talk. Maybe now? But Arthur answered the door. He was tall—she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Maybe, she thought, that was all for the best. “Arthur,” she pleaded. “Please, can we talk? Once. Just once.” “Oh, Katie. Still hoping to clear your little name? Too late,” her brother said. “Best just confess. Maybe you’ll be forgiven.” But Katie wouldn’t apologise for something she hadn’t done. “No. I need the truth. Maybe you made a mistake? What if the money fell from another bag? A pocket? Think—” Suddenly, Arthur’s eyes went cold. “Mistake? Katie, are you really that naïve?” He leaned closer. “Of course I know you didn’t steal it. I planted it in your bag myself.” She reeled. “What?” It was all she could manage. “You heard.” “Why?” she whispered. “Why would you do that?” To get rid of the competition. “In the race for the inheritance, sis, all’s fair. Granny wasn’t going to last more than a year, tops—you saw it. That flat? It was already signed to Mum so there wouldn’t be probate problems. Then came the issue: Mum’s sentimental, you know. She wanted to give it to you.” Katie was still lost. “But why?” “Because, darling Katie,” said Arthur with a sneer, “you came by every evening. Fed Granny, cleaned her flat, read little books she couldn’t even understand—a perfect granddaughter. Mum saw that and melted. She thought you deserved it all. And I didn’t? Am I not a grandson? Don’t I deserve something too? So I decided to compete.” “I never did it for the flat!” Katie shouted, more pained by the confession than anything else. “I did it for Granny! I loved her!” He snorted. “Oh spare me, Katie. We’re all human. You wanted to play the good girl, the devoted granddaughter, and scoop everything up. But I outplayed you. One-nil.” When Katie couldn’t answer, he finished it off. “So now,” Arthur concluded, “you’re the thief. Mum will never turn on me; I’m the good son. You’re the black sheep. And the flat is mine—who’d let you through that door now without a scene?” “You’re a real piece of work,” Katie spat. “Guilty as charged. Bye, sis. Inheritance secured.” He opened the front door. Katie didn’t move. A flat really would have helped—renting was dear and she’d never afford to buy. But she truly had loved Granny. She remembered Granny Thelma, even in confusion, once stroking her cheek and saying: “Thank you for coming, love. You’re just like my Pete.” And now, the only way to set her name straight would be to prove Arthur lied—but how? She couldn’t. Leaving the house, Katie knew that in a year, no one would remember she’d never been a bad person. They’d only remember one thing: Katie stole money from her dying grandmother. Arthur had already won, and he was celebrating.