The house, the estate—my father’s bones were laid into these old beams. And now he would hand it over to Adam, the boy from London, with his two wives and three children, while Hannah, my Hannah, was left with the crumbs. My face flushed, the fireplace flickering in the dim light of the den.
“Papa, are you mad? The estate’s in your name! You can’t just give it to Adam without—” I slammed the teacup down, the porcelain clattering.
“Hannah, please,” Father sighed, his voice as steady as the rain pattering against the window. “Adam has his family. He’s weathered London’s grime, two jobs, a mortgage bleeding him dry. You and Marcus have a flat. I’m not casting you out.”
“A flat, Papa? Rented, with a mortgage we barely cover, thanks to that job of his at Marks & Spencer? Meanwhile, you gift Adam the home that’s stood for three generations—what does that make me, a charity case?”
Father’s head drooped. We’d had this argument a dozen times. His Adam, his golden boy, always first in line. Always. The estate, the name, the legacy—willed through sons, never daughters. It was how it was.
“You think I don’t know about the will?” I spat, my voice cracking. “Adam told me. The deed’s already signed, isn’t it? Passed from son to son, that’s how it’s always been. Never mind the years I nursed you after your stroke, the nights I crossed Manchester for broth and bandages.”
“The will—” he started, but I cut him off, sharp as a blade.
“I’ve had enough.” My hands balled into fists. “If this is a manor to Adam, it’s a mortgage to me. I’ll take it to court, Papa. I’ll sue you for what’s mine.”
Lily, my ten-year-old, peered in from the hall. Her eyes wide, her small frame trembling.
“Mama, are we—”
“Go to your room,” I hissed. She hesitated, then fled.
I sank into my chair, the arms shaking. Father rose, his back as stooped as the old estate itself.
“It’s tradition, Hannah,” he said, so quietly. “Like your mother before you. You know this. The house is for the son.”
“You’d sell your firstborn for a brick wall?” My voice fell to a whisper. “You’d let her memory rot here?”
Silence. The house creaked like a living thing.
That night, Adam arrived with his wife, Elena. Children clambering over each other, their laughter echoing through the drafty halls. They moved in, the furniture rearranged, the air thick with new scents of lavender and woodsmoke. Father was relocated to the east wing, granted a tiny chamber. “For the elders,” Elena chirped, as if he were a guest at a weekend retreat.
I didn’t call again.
Until Lily came, unexpected, on a drizzly Monday. Her hair in plaits, her eyes red from tears.
“Granda,” she said, hugging me so tight. “They’re leaving. Mummy’s found a job in Leeds, and Daddy—” She faltered. “He doesn’t want me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s staying here. With them.”
The room tilted. Leeds—200 miles from Manchester. From me. From him. Marcus had always drunk too much, always sulked, but this? To abandon her?
That night, I found Father in the study. Adam was absent, holed up with Elena and their brood.
“I can’t do this,” he said, eyes hollow. “Your mother would turn in her grave if she knew—”
“Then sell the estate,” I cut in. “Split it. Marry us both off in flats. You have the funds. You’ve always had the funds!”
He stared at me. “The house is for the son.”
“And what if Adam turns it into a ruin next week? What if Lily ends up on the streets?”
He didn’t answer.
The following weeks were a blur. The house was put up for sale, a stately home in the Lake District—list price £2.8 million. Two flats emerged from the proceeds: a four-bedroom in Manchester for us, and a three-bedroom in London for Adam.
The last evening, as we packed, Adam stormed in, face flushed, wine on his breath.
“Papa did this for you, didn’t he?” he growled at me. “You conned him. Manipulated Lily into planting that last straw.”
“Adam,” I said, cold. “You let your daughter live in a broken flat while you occupied a manor meant for both of us. Then you call her a tool?”
He recoiled. Staggered back.
The house was sold a fortnight later. I moved into my flat with Lily and Marcus, who had sobered up in my absence. Adam, to his credit, stayed in London. We spoke simply: a birthday card each, a shared holiday at the seaside.
On the Cornish cliffs, the sea roared like a beast. Lily ran with Adam’s children, their laughter stitching the frayed edges of our family together.
My mother, wherever she was, would’ve smiled.
Houses crumble. People endure.
