You dont have a family of your ownlet your sister have the house. She needs it far more right now, my mother declared. Its easier for you, but your sister has three children; cant you see how hard it is for her?
Why are you so grumpy?
My sister, Emma, settled next to me on the worn sofa, nursing a glass of orange squash. Laughter bounced off the kitchen walls; her children squabbled over party hats and her husband regaled our mum with some story, gesturing with his fork, crumbs of cake tumbling onto the china plate.
Im fine, I muttered, diverting my eyes. Just tired. Work was awful today.
She managed a soft laugh and flicked back a blonde strand. Ive been meaning to speak to you for a few days. About Dads house.
Im listening.
She leaned close, lowering her voice. Weve been thinking What do you and Simon really need that old place for? Theres just the two of you, youve got your flat already. Were cramped with three kids in a rented two-bed. If we moved in, itd be fresh air, a garden, space for everyone.
I watched my niecesix years old, their eldestlean forward to blow out the candles on her cake, cheeks puffed, eyes bright.
Honestly, you dont need that house, Emma pressed on. Its only extra bills for you. The roof leaks, the fence is collapsingtheres always another repair.
And what will you do with it? I wondered, but kept quiet.
Mum agrees it makes sense, she continued. Were not asking for a favour, just give up your bit. We can work the rest out later.
I nodded, although I felt something clench inside.
On the silent drive home, Simon kept his gaze fixed on the road.
What happened?
They want me to give up my share of Dads house.
As in, just hand it over?
Yes. They say they need it more. And we supposedly have everything.
Everything? he scoffed, a bitter edge in his laugh. You mean our poky mortgaged flat?
The following afternoon, my mother phoned.
Have you thought it over?
Theres nothing to think about. Half the house is mine.
Youre always going on about rights, she sighed. But what about family? Shes got three young ones. And youyoure on your own.
Our flat is mortgaged. Well be paying it off for another decade.
They dont even have that.
I was the one who looked after Dad those last months. Took him to appointments, sorted all the medicine. Emma popped round twice.
Youre the eldest. You should understand. You have more freedom.
Freedom. The word jabbed right through me.
That night, I sat in our small kitchen, swirling tea in my mug.
Is your mum pushing too? Simon asked.
She is, I admitted.
The next day, over coffee, my friend Rebecca leant towards me. When was the last time your sister helped you with anything?
I searched my memory, found nothing.
Do they even know how much you and Simon spent on IVF?
No.
Nearly a hundred thousand pounds. Not even one pregnancy. Still they think youve got it easy.
Later, I decided to visit the house.
I went alone.
The garden was wild, grass licking my ankles. The door creaked as I pushed through, the air thick with dust and echoes.
On the kitchen worktop I found Dads old exercise book: his spidery handwriting, lists of repairs hed planned. He never got the chance.
Outside stood the apple tree wed planted together when I was small.
This wasnt just property. This was memory, and history.
So when my mother arrived and said, You dont have a family, its easier for you I didnt swallow my words.
Three rounds of IVF. Three, I said.
And for the first time, I told her: The house is mine. I wont give it away.
There was a heavy silence. But it wasnt emptyit was liberating.
Spring came early.
Mrs. Jennings next door nodded over the fence: He was always waiting to see you, you know.
I sat on the porch steps, Dads jumper warming my shoulders, mug of tea cradled in my hands, the apple tree in front of me.
This was my home.
Not because Id yielded.
But because I had the right.
