Cramped!
Lorraine stared in disbelief at the message on her phone:
*”Hello, darling. Forgive me for only writing now—I had my reasons. Your mother and I parted ways long ago, when you were just three, so of course you won’t remember me. I won’t pretend to repent or beg forgiveness. I left for another woman, the one I fell in love with, and I don’t consider myself in the wrong. I left your mother the flat we shared and all our belongings—walked away with nothing but the clothes on my back. I paid child support, small as it was, so I don’t think I acted dishonourably.*
*Now, the matter at hand. Five years ago, I moved with my new family to Australia, where I still live. My mother—your grandmother, Margaret—refused to leave. After we left, she stayed in her little two-room flat. I covered her medical bills and living expenses, but she passed not long ago. I couldn’t return for the funeral—the journey from here is difficult and costly, though we live comfortably.*
*She had no close relatives left, and it makes no sense for me to fly back just to sell the place. The profit would be pennies, and the hassle immense. So, we decided to leave the flat to you. I’ve arranged all the legal paperwork and sent it to a solicitor. Before she died, your grandmother willed the property to you. You’ll need to contact him to sort the details. His fees are already paid; you’ll only need to cover local taxes and transfer costs. And—most importantly—look after your grandmother’s grave. Put up a headstone. It won’t cost much, not compared to what you’re getting: a flat of your own.*
*I hope you’ll use this gift wisely. And know this—it’s for you alone. Your mother already received her share—the flat, child support. Any new husband she might have, any children, they’re nothing to me. So I’ll say it again: this inheritance is yours, and only yours.*
*Be happy, love. Your father, Edward Whitmore.”*
The solicitor’s details followed. Lorraine couldn’t resist. She called straight away, confirmed the details, and arranged to meet him the next afternoon. She decided not to tell her mother yet—better to see everything first, get the facts straight.
At home, the three of them were packed like sardines—her mother, her half-sister Isabelle, Isabelle’s husband, and their two boys. Lorraine and her mother shared the tiny bedroom, while Isabelle’s family squeezed into the larger room. If this flat business was true, it would be a godsend! She’d scraped together some savings for a mortgage deposit. If she tightened her belt, she could’ve managed a studio, maybe. But now—fate had handed her a lifeline!
Her father had sent a floor plan—a dim little two-bedder, probably untouched since the ’70s, the walls thin as paper. No matter! It would be hers, truly hers. No more blaring telly, no more nephews wrecking her things. She could soak in a bath without rushing, wrap herself in a towel—or nothing at all—without worry. No more stolen groceries, no mountains of dishes in the sink. Evening coffee in a fluffy robe, her laptop open, designing interiors that sold well enough. And—her cheeks warmed—she might finally have a love life. The smaller room would be her sanctuary, the kitchen her office, the larger one for guests.
She caught herself, schooling her face. First, she had to be sure.
The next day, she met the solicitor—a middle-aged man in rumpled but expensive clothes. He confirmed everything, showed her the papers, took her to the flat. It was tired, yes, but nothing she couldn’t fix.
“When can I move in?” she asked.
“After six months, once probate clears,” he said. “No other claimants, so it should be smooth. You can have the keys now, but I’d hold off on renovations—just in case. Change the locks, introduce yourself to the neighbours.”
Then came the hard part: telling her mother.
Her mother’s lips thinned. “Why’s Edward doing this through *you*?”
“Because I’m his daughter!”
“And I was his wife—former or not, property matters should go through me!”
“Mum, it was Gran’s flat. She left it to *me* because Dad couldn’t fly back to deal with it. He arranged this so I’d inherit. It’s mine.”
“Yours *exclusively*? What about me? What about Isabelle and the boys?”
“You’re not strangers, but you were nothing to Gran. Dad left *you* the flat when you split, paid child support. Why should he provide for Isabelle—who isn’t even his? I put my life on hold when she got pregnant and moved her husband in! I’m 22, Mum. I want my own space!”
Her mother scoffed. “Isabelle’s struggling too!”
“By *choice*! She rushed into marriage without a home. I was saving for a mortgage—”
“What savings?”
Lorraine exhaled. “Fine, I was dreaming. But now I *can* leave!”
Her mother’s voice dropped. “You’d abandon us?”
“Yes! I’ll sign my share here over to you or Isabelle, but I’m *going*.”
Her mother’s eyes glistened. “I’d hoped we could combine the flats—trade up, give everyone room.”
“With what? Neither place is worth much. And it’d only be temporary. Isabelle would have another baby, and we’d be right back here!”
“Then take me with you. The flat has two rooms—one for each of us.”
“*Adjoining* rooms. It’d be the same cramped nightmare, just the two of us! Isabelle gets this whole place, and I’m still trapped!”
“You’re *alone*! Isabelle has a family!”
“And I *don’t*!” Lorraine’s voice cracked. “Isabelle got her looks from her dad—no wonder her husband moved into this shoebox. Me? I’ve scraped by with flings. No one *marries* the plain girl with no dowry. But now—now I’ll have a flat. Maybe then I’ll find someone!”
Her mother’s mouth twisted. “Couldn’t land a man with property, then?”
“Men like that want supermodels or heiresses. I’m neither. But a flat changes things. I’m not old yet. I want a husband. Kids. I’m *done* arguing.”
She turned, headphones on, back to her mother. The telly blared—some trashy talk show Lorraine despised. Her mother stared blankly, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
