**Home to the Son, Resentment to the Daughter**
“Mary, what are you going on about? As if you’d just hand over the house like that? What about me? Am I supposed to chuck you and the kids out onto the street?” Marjorie leapt from her armchair, her face flushed with indignation, spots of crimson rising to her cheeks.
“Come now, love,” Victor gently replied, trying to calm his daughter. “I’m not sending you out. I’ll help you secure an apartment—pay the initial deposit, even.”
“Initial deposit! Have you any idea what housing costs these days? The mortgage rates? And you just hand the whole house to your *boy friend*? On account of his pretty eyes?”
“He’s my son, Marjorie.”
“Ah, but I’m not a daughter then? For twenty years I was your darling daughter, and now I’m suddenly… nothing?” Her voice wavered. “I nursed you through that heart attack, drove across the countryside every day, prepared your meals, administered your medicines. Where was Adam in all that? Basking in London, making his money!”
Victor rubbed his temples, exhausted. His son had indeed fled London five years ago to support his growing family. Marjorie had been a pillar for their father during his illness—but she’d lived two tube stops away, not across the country.
“Marjorie, the house was always meant for the son. It’s the way things were decided by me and your mother, long before you were born. It’s just how it is.”
“Oh, *Mother*,” Marjorie scoffed bitterly. “If Mother were alive, she’d never let you treat me like this!”
“Quite the opposite,” Victor sighed. “Your mother knew well the house was for Adam. We’d planned to assist you in buying an apartment. But she’s been gone ten years now.” Her eyes glistened as she whispered, “And you’re just trying to hand me a trinket to keep me quiet.”
The door creaked open. Ten-year-old Polly peeked in, wide-eyed at her mother’s shouting and her grandfather’s silence.
“Mum, why are you yelling?”
Marjorie turned sharply, softening her tone. “Back to your room, Polly. Adults are talking.”
The girl hesitated but obeyed, and Marjorie slumped into her chair, defeated.
“Fine, Dad,” she muttered, still seething. “Always Adam, always the best for him, and me with the scraps. Don’t fancy splitting things fairly? Then I’ll take it to court. I’ll see you for every penny.”
Victor paled. He’d never heard her threaten legal action.
“I’m still alive, Marjorie. What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb! Adam let it slip. You’ve already signed the property over to him, right? A deed to skip over me?”
She stood abruptly. “I can see you have.” He said nothing. “Fine. I’m going.”
Polly reappeared moments later, giggling as she hugged her grandfather. “Don’t be cross, Granda. Mummy’s just tired.”
Victor managed a weak smile, stroking her hair. “Run along. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”
As the front door slammed, Victor trudged to the window. Marjorie, clutching Polly’s hand, hurried to the gate. She paused, sensing his gaze, then turned away, pulling the gate shut behind them.
He stared into the gray autumn sky, the relentless rain blurring the world. Had he been unfair? Children should be equal, but tradition had always favored the son. It was how it had always been for his family—father, grandfather, and now Adam. Daughters married and left, sons stayed to care for the old. It was how things were.
His phone rang. Adam.
“Been meaning to call, Dad,” his son chirped. “We’re due in on Friday, Len just packed the last box, the kids are all set up.”
“Yes, yes,” Victor rasped. “All good.”
“You tell her yet?”
“Yes…”
“She’s bound to be cross. Always so bloody dramatic about it.”
“Let’s not talk like that. Her and the Clive are having their own struggles. Money’s tight, their marriage…”
“Beg pardon? Who doesn’t have money these days? I’ve got my hands full, for God’s sake. I work, unlike her moping about in her library all day!”
“Marjorie works, too,” Victor said quietly.
“Three days a week in that dusty place? That counts as work? Never mind—just don’t fret, Dad. You did the right thing. The house stays in the family. I’ll look after you. It’s what should’ve happened all along.”
Victor chuckled dryly. Adam had looked after him by calling a few times a year. Yet, he *had* toiled hard with two jobs and a growing family.
After hanging up, Victor sank into the kitchen, the kettle long cold. The house creaked like an old man groaning, burdened by the weight of decisions made decades ago.
The phone rang again. Marjorie.
“Dad,” her voice was low, teary. “I… I overstepped. It just hurt.”
“I know, love,” he sighed.
“It’s not fair. I always thought we were equal. But maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I’m not.”
“You *are*, Marjorie. I love you both. It’s just… tradition.”
“Tradition?” she echoed. “It’s 2024, Dad. Equal rights are hardly a pipe dream, are they?”
He couldn’t argue.
“I won’t go to court,” she said quietly. “But I can’t come back here. It’s too… too raw.”
“Marjorie—”
“No, Dad. That’s final. You can see Polly if you like, but I won’t. I just can’t.”
The line went dead. He sat motionless, the rain turning the garden into a blurred canvas of gray.
The days that followed were frantic. Adam’s family arrived in the sprawling countryside home, their voices bouncing off the walls. Len, his wife, buzzed about with enthusiasm, repainting rooms and rearranging furniture. Adam hefted boxes, assembling a nursery for their third child. The kids scampered through the halls, their laughter filling the quiet corners.
Victor was given his old room—soft lighting, a new leather armchair, fresh curtains, and a mattress said to cost a fortune.
“Does this make it feel like home, Granda?” Polly asked one evening, her eyes wide with hope.
He smiled. “It’s perfect, love.”
But her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
One night, when the children were asleep and Len in the bath, Victor finally confronted Adam.
“About Marjorie…”
“She wants more of the house now, doesn’t she?” Adam grumbled, not looking up from his newspaper.
“No. I’ve just been thinking… Maybe this could’ve been handled differently. Shared? The land’s large enough for…”
“Papa,” Adam snapped. “We’ve already signed. Sorted. Documents sealed. You’re an old fool for even suggesting otherwise. She’s always envied me. Remember when I got a car at 18 and she had to wait two years for a driving course? She’s always demanded everything handed to her. Never effort, never a proper life.”
Victor frowned. There was some truth in that. Marjorie *had* been more indulged, more… self-involved. But then, they’d raised her that way, hadn’t they?
“Besides,” Adam continued, leaning closer, “she’s got Clive. Let *him* look after her. I’ll care for you. That’s only fair.”
Len reentered the room, wrapping a towel around her damp hair, and put a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Let it go, love. You did the right thing. She’ll come around. We all will.”
Months passed. Adam’s family settled in. Children ran through the gardens. Victor tended to crops and helping Len with the nappies, all while thinking of Marjorie and Polly. They didn’t come. Marjorie called him once—briefly, coldly. Polly was mentioned, but never again.
Then, on a crisp April morning, the doorbell rang.
“Granda!” Polly burst in, her backpack still slung over one shoulder. “I’ve been so lonely!”
Victor swept her into a hug, tears pricking his eyes. “My clever girl. Come in, come in. Tea and biscuits?”
She enthused about her new school, her science project, her best friend, Lily. But when she mentioned, “Mum’s not happy, Granda. She cries when she thinks I’m not looking. She argues with Clive now,” Victor’s heart sank.
Solomon, her ex, couldn’t help. Marjorie had been offered a teaching job in Manchester, but it was temporary. Clive had left, and now she was flying solo.
“Will I get to see you still?” Polly asked, suddenly anxious.
“Of course, love,” Victor assured her. “All the time. I’d never miss a visit.”
After Polly left, Victor sat in stunned silence. His daughter, alone, his granddaughter… and he’d been useless to her.
At dinner that night, Victor told Adam.
“Difficult, is it?” Adam muttered. “Well, maybe Clive deserved it. The man was an idiot.”
“That’s not the point,” Victor said sharply. “We both know she’s struggling. I’m going to help.”
“Hell’s bells, what now?”
“I’m selling the house. Split the proceeds. Buy two flats—one for you, one for Marjorie and Polly.”
Adam leapt up, red-faced. “What nonsense! The house is *mine*. You signed it over!”
“I’ve arranged for the deed revoked. We’ll sell and divide fairly.”
“But the house has been in the family for generations! You’re throwing it all away on her?”
“Adam,” Len spoke up, her voice gentle but firm, “she’s your sister. And your niece is your family too. How would you feel if this were your daughter in her position?”
Adam slumped back, silent.
The following week, the family met. Marjorie arrived, gaunt and pale. The four of them sat in the living room, the air crackling with tension.
“Marjorie,” Victor began, “I’m selling the house. We’ll use the money to buy two flats. One for you and Polly. One for Adam and his family.”
Her eyes darted between them, finally settling on Adam. “You… you’re in on this too?”
Adam nodded, hugging his brother’s arm. “I’m still cross, but… you’re my sister. I’m sorry, Mary.”
Marjorie dissolved into tears, pulled into Len’s embrace.
By summer, the house was sold. Flats in Bristol were bought—one for Adam and his brood, another for Marjorie and Polly. Victor moved in with her, the two of them forming a new kind of family. Marjorie taught in a local school, while Polly thrived in her new role as the teacher’s star pupil.
And on evenings like this, sitting on a park bench with three grandchildren and two former adversaries, Victor smiled.
The house had been a dream, a dream clouded by old traditions. But now, everything was real. Family—true, messy, and loving—was finally within reach.
