Cramped!
Lottie stared in disbelief at the message on her phone:
“Hello, darling. Forgive me for only writing now—there were reasons. Your mother and I parted ways long ago, when you were just three, so you won’t remember me. I won’t claim regret or beg forgiveness. I left for another woman I loved, and I don’t consider myself at fault. I gave your mother the flat we shared and everything in it—I walked away with nothing but the clothes on my back. I paid child support, modest as it was, and in all, I believe I did nothing dishonourable.
Now to business. Five years ago, my new family and I moved permanently to Australia, where we still live. My mother—your grandmother, Margaret Spencer—refused to join us, insisting on staying in her small two-room flat. I covered her care and expenses, but she passed away recently. Travelling back for the funeral was impossible—too far, too costly—though we live comfortably.
With no close relatives left to handle her estate, selling the flat would bring little profit for the effort. So, we’ve decided to leave it to you. I’ve arranged the paperwork through a solicitor. Your grandmother made a will in your name. You’ll need to contact him to settle the details—his fees are paid, though you’ll cover local taxes and transfer costs. The only condition is tending Margaret’s grave and placing a headstone. A small price for a home of your own.
This is yours alone, Lottie. Your mother received her due—the flat, maintenance—and any new husband or children of hers are no concern of mine.
Be happy. Your father, Victor Andrew Spencer.”
Below were the solicitor’s details. Lottie couldn’t resist calling at once. The facts were confirmed, and she arranged a meeting for the next afternoon. She resolved to keep it from her mother until she’d seen everything herself.
At home, her mother’s two-bed flat was overcrowded. Lottie’s half-sister, Jenny—three years younger, with a mystery father—had married young and swiftly borne two sons. Now, the four of them crammed into the larger room, while Lottie and her mother shared the tiny bedroom. If the inheritance proved true, it would be a godsend! She’d scraped together savings for a deposit, dreaming of a mortgage on some grim studio. Now, fate handed her a flat—small, tired, a worn-out postwar two-bed with connecting doors, but hers. No more blaring telly, no nephews tearing through her space. She could soak in a fragrant bath, pad about in a towel—or less—without an audience. No more stolen groceries, no sink piled with unwashed dishes.
Wrapped in a robe, she’d sip strong coffee at her laptop, designing interiors that sold well enough. And—she smiled sheepishly—perhaps even a proper love life. The small room would be her private sanctuary; the kitchen, her office; the larger room, for guests. Then she frowned—first, she must verify everything.
The next day, she met the solicitor—a man in his forties, casually dressed but in expensive brands. He confirmed her father’s claims, showed her documents, then drove her to the flat. Its shabby state didn’t faze her; she could handle that.
“The keys are yours now,” he said, “but I’d advise against moving in or renovating just yet. Change the locks, introduce yourself to the neighbours—let them know the place has an owner.”
Now came the harder task: telling her mother. Removing one person would ease the household strain, but her mother took the news sourly.
“Why is Victor dealing through you?” she snapped.
“Because I’m his daughter,” Lottie said, baffled.
“I was his wife! Property matters should go through me!”
“Mum, it was Gran’s flat. She left it to me because Dad couldn’t fly back from Australia to settle it. And you’re nobody to her.”
Her mother’s eyes hardened. “So you’ll leave us here?”
“Yes. I’ll sign my share of this flat over to you or Jenny. I want my own space.”
“You could’ve let us trade both flats for one bigger place—”
“And end up in another overcrowded mess when Jenny has more kids? No.”
“Then take me with you. The flat has two rooms—”
“Connecting rooms, Mum. It’d be the same cramped life, just the two of us. Jenny gets this whole flat, and I’m still stifled. I won’t do it.”
Her mother’s voice turned sharp. “Jenny has a husband, children—”
“And I have nothing! No husband, no kids—because no man looked twice at me in this chaos! Maybe now, with my own flat, that’ll change. I want a life too!”
Her mother’s retort was icy: “Couldn’t you find a man with his own flat?”
Lottie laughed bitterly. “Men like that want models or heiresses. Now, at least, I’ll have something to offer. I’m done sacrificing for everyone else.”
She turned away, slamming on headphones. Behind her, the telly blared to life, some garish talk show she despised. Her mother stared blankly at the screen, hot tears streaking her cheeks.
