My name is Eleanor. A week ago, my brother, William, appeared on the doorstep of my cottage in the countryside near York after many years apart. He handed me a box filled with money—his life’s savings—and then vanished, leaving me in turmoil. The weight of that money burns my hands, and his sorrowful tale aches in my heart. Now I face a tormenting choice: should I give it to his wife and daughter, who cast him aside, or keep it for myself? My soul cries for fairness, yet fear and doubt plague me. What does one do when honesty clashes with the wounds of the past?
They say village life binds folk like family, where all lend a hand to one another. But time has shown me otherwise. The young, barely grown, flee to distant cities the moment they can. I, the youngest in my family, stayed with our parents. My elder sister, Margaret, married young and sailed away with her husband to America. She never hid her resentment at caring for William and me, and our ties frayed until they snapped. The idyllic village life I once believed in proved hollow.
William was different. No scholar, but honest and merry, he knew a thousand jests and was the light of any gathering. I loved him for his kindness. He married a woman from a nearby hamlet, but instead of bringing her home, he moved away with her. William respected hard work, toiling on building sites, yet money always ran thin. His wife, Catherine, and her kin were tight-fisted, and he scraped by to feed them. When I wed, he wasn’t there—he’d gone abroad to seek work. Catherine was with child, and though I understood why he couldn’t stay, his absence left a bruise on my heart.
Years passed. I lived with my husband, Thomas, and our parents, raising three children. William laboured as a dockhand in a foreign port, sending wages home for Catherine to build a house. His daughter, my niece Emily, grew up, yet Catherine never brought her to visit. My bond with William faded, and I resigned myself to losing another piece of my heart. But Thomas’s love and steadiness kept me anchored.
Then, everything changed when William called unexpectedly. His voice trembled as he confessed he’d fallen for another woman and could no longer lie to Catherine. He left her his savings, vowed to support Emily until she came of age, and walked away. I ached for him, yet admired his honesty. Catherine cut us from her life, forbidding our parents from seeing their grandchild. It shattered them, but I could do nothing.
A week ago, William stood at my door. I scarcely recognised him—his face, lined and weathered, bore the marks of a hard life. Yet he smiled and jested as he had in our youth. Only at the end did sorrow fill his eyes. He told me his new love had died of a cruel illness. They’d had no children. Catherine barred him from their home, and Emily, now grown, refused to know him. William had come to say farewell, sensing his time was short. He pressed a box into my hands—£15,000, the sum of his years of toil. “I’ve no use for it now, but you might,” he said, then left, leaving no trace behind.
I sat staring at the money, feeling it poison my spirit. William chose me, but only, perhaps, because his wife and daughter had forsaken him. This money is his pain, his sacrifice. Emily is grown—does she not deserve a share? Or Catherine, who raised her alone? I’ve no wish to face them—Catherine’s always been cold, and Emily renounced her father. Yet the honesty William taught me demands I speak the truth. What if he later regretted his choice?
Thomas and I could put the money to good use—mending the roof, schooling the children. There’s no returning it. But the thought of keeping it gnaws at me. Should I go to Catherine and risk her wrath? Or honour William’s choice? My conscience tears at me, and his parting has left a void. Has anyone else known such a choice? How does one hold to honesty when it might unravel everything? I pray for an answer, but for now, I bear this burden alone, and it chokes me.
