“How is this fair?!” Edward brandishes the will in front of the solicitor’s face. “The London flat goes to James, the cottage in the Cotswolds to James, even the bloody Range Rover to James! And me? His own flesh and blood! What do I get?”
“Mr. Whitmore, please compose yourself,” the solicitor adjusts her glasses, her voice firm. “Your father had every right to distribute his estate as he saw fit.”
“This isn’t right!” Edward’s voice cracks with fury. “James married Charlotte barely five years ago, and he walks away with the lot? Where’s the justice in that?”
James sits quietly in the corner of the office, fists clenched, his face pale and eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. He says nothing, but it’s clear the ordeal is torturing him just as much as Edward.
“Ed, stop shouting,” Charlotte speaks softly but firmly. “Dad knew what he was doing.”
“Oh, shut it!” Edward snaps at his sister. “I bet your darling husband had a word with Dad while he was poorly, didn’t he?”
James stands abruptly.
“Say that again,” his voice low and dangerous.
“I will! You took advantage of a sick old man! Played the doting son-in-law while eyeing his fortune the whole time!”
“Eddie!” Charlotte jumps to her feet. “How dare you! James spent every night in the hospital with Dad! Where were you? His precious son?”
“I was working! I have a family, kids! I can’t just drop everything to play nurse!”
“But James could?” Charlotte steps closer. “Has he no job? No family? He used his leave to sit by Dad’s bedside, skipped sleep, took unpaid days off!”
The solicitor sighs, tapping her pen on the desk.
“For the sake of professionalism, I must ask you to take this outside. The will is legally binding, signed while Mr. Whitmore was of sound mind. Medical records confirm it.”
Edward snatches the copy of the will and reads it aloud, voice trembling:
“‘The three-bedroom flat in Kensington to James Alexander Cole. The Cotswolds cottage to James Alexander Cole. The Range Rover to James Alexander Cole.’” He scoffs. “‘To Edward William Whitmore: the garage and gardening tools. Gardening tools! A bloody trowel and a rake!’”
“And twenty thousand pounds,” the solicitor adds pointedly.
“Twenty grand!” Edward laughs bitterly. “That flat’s worth over a million now! The cottage—half that! The car’s nearly new! And I get twenty thousand? Like some charity handout!”
James finally speaks.
“Edward, I never asked for this. When your father told me he was changing the will, I told him it should go to you and Charlotte.”
“Oh, I bet you did!” Edward sneers.
“What did Dad say?” Charlotte asks her husband.
James exhales heavily.
“He said, ‘Ed’s my blood, but you’ve been more of a son to me. He only turns up when he needs something. You’re there without being asked.’ His words, not mine.”
Edward pales.
“He never said that.”
“He did,” Charlotte confirms. “I heard it too. Dad was hurt you never visited.”
“I had a life! A job! Not all of us can play nursemaid!”
“No one forced James to care for him,” Charlotte sits back down. “He did it because he loved Dad.”
Silence falls. The solicitor stacks her papers, eager to end the unpleasant meeting.
“I’ll contest this,” Edward declares. “I’ll prove Dad wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Go ahead,” James shrugs. “It’s your right.”
“Ed, think about this,” Charlotte pleads. “Dad’s gone. Are money and property worth tearing us apart?”
“Easy for you to say!” Edward flares. “Your husband’s sitting pretty while I’m left with scraps! I counted on that flat! Planned to sell it, move the kids to a better school—”
“You think we didn’t have plans?” James walks to the window. “You think I wanted this? Wanted us to fall out like this?”
“Then give it up,” Edward challenges. “If it bothers you so much.”
“No,” James says firmly. “It was your father’s last wish. I’ll respect that.”
Charlotte takes his hand.
“He was a smart man, Ed. He knew what he was doing.”
“Oh, he knew alright!” Edward’s temper flares again. “Knew he could slight his own son but not the outsider! Knew I’d take it because I’m family!”
“Or maybe he knew something else,” Charlotte says quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She hesitates, then meets her brother’s eyes.
“Maybe he remembered how you borrowed ten grand three years ago for a car?”
“So what? Can’t a son ask his father for help?”
“You promised to repay it in six months. Three years later, nothing.”
Edward’s face reddens.
“I was going to! Circumstances—”
“Or how you took money to fix his bathroom, vanished for weeks, and only came back when he threatened court?”
“I did the work eventually!”
“After six months!”
James stays silent, uncomfortable witnessing the siblings’ feud.
“Char, leave it,” he murmurs.
“No.” Her voice wavers. “Let him remember how Dad rang before his surgery, and Eddie said he’d call back—but never did.”
“I forgot! Life happens!”
“Just like you ‘forgot’ his birthday? His name day? When was the last time you visited without an agenda?”
Edward opens his mouth but says nothing. Charlotte continues:
“James came every week. Brought food, took him to doctors’ appointments. Not out of duty—because he cared.”
“Fine! I’m the villain, he’s the saint! Got it. But I’m fighting this!”
He grabs his documents and storms out.
“Ed, wait!” Charlotte calls after him.
“What now?”
“We’re family. Let’s work this out. James—tell him.”
James turns from the window.
“I’m willing to compromise. Not legally—just between us. We could split the cottage, or sell it and share the money.”
“And the flat?” Edward demands.
“I can’t. Charlotte and I are renting. We need it.”
“Right. So you keep the big ticket items.”
“Eddie!” Charlotte steps forward. “Grow up! James is trying, and you’re still ungrateful!”
“Ungrateful? A stranger gets more than the son!”
“He’s not a stranger! He’s my husband—Dad’s family!”
“He’s not blood!”
The solicitor clears her throat.
“I’m closing early today. Please take your documents and leave.”
Edward slams the door behind him. Charlotte dissolves into tears.
“We’ve lost him,” she whispers.
James holds her.
“Maybe he’ll cool off.”
“He won’t. He holds grudges.”
Outside, the evening drizzle falls. James opens an umbrella, shielding Charlotte as they walk.
“Do you think he’s right?” he asks quietly. “Should I have refused the inheritance?”
“Why? Dad chose this. He saw who loved him—and who just saw his money.”
“But Edward’s his son.”
“Being a son doesn’t entitle you to anything. You earn it.”
At the bus stop, Charlotte recounts how their father praised James in his final months.
“‘He’s a good man, Charlie. A real one.’ About Ed, he’d say, ‘I spoiled him. Thought love came with blood. But love’s something you earn.’”
On the bus, she shares her father’s last words to her:
“‘Keep James close. Men like him are rare. He’ll never betray you. Flats and money—they’re not what matter.’”
James swallows hard.
“He was a good man.”
“And fair. He gave each what they deserved.”
At home, their six-year-old, Oliver, bounds over.
“Did Granddad really leave us the cottage?”
“He did, mate.” James lifts him up.
“Why was Uncle Eddie shouting on the phone with Nan? He said you tricked Granddad.”
Charlotte and James exchange glances. Nan—Margaret—is Edward and Charlotte’s mother, their father’s widow.
“What exactly did he say?” Charlotte asks.
“That Dad cheated Granddad and stole Uncle Eddie’s flat. That he’ll sue.”
“Ollie, go finish your homework,” James says gently. “Mum and I need to talk.”
Once Oliver leaves, Charlotte calls Margaret.
“Mum, did Ed ring you?”
“He did.” Her voice is weary. “Ranting about the will. Says he’ll contest it.”
“And you said…?”
“What could I say? Your dad made his choice. He told me he’d rewrite it.”
“He told you?”
“Of course. Thirty years marriedMargaret sighs softly, her voice gentle but firm: “Love isn’t measured by blood or names, but by the time we give and the care we show—your father understood that, and now, so must we.”
### **EPILOGUE**
Years later, Oliver tends the garden of the Cotswolds cottage—his grandfather’s spade in hand—while laughter echoes from the kitchen, where James and Charlotte share tea with Margaret, the past’s wounds finally softened by the quiet understanding that some legacies are not written in wills, but in the love we leave behind.
