Long ago, in a quiet corner of London, a tale unfolded—one of abandonment, regret, and fragile hope.
William dropped by his mother’s without warning.
“William, love! Why didn’t you ring first?” Edith asked, startled to see her son at the doorstep.
“Just happened to be nearby,” he shrugged. “Thought I’d stop in.”
“Come in then, I’ll put the kettle on,” she offered.
He followed her into the kitchen, settling at the table. Something in his expression was uneasy, troubled.
“Will, what’s the matter?” Edith pressed, her voice tight with concern.
“Mum… Father’s sent me a message,” he murmured, handing her his phone.
She glanced at the screen, read the words, and felt dread coil in her chest.
*”Son, we need to talk. Come round this Saturday. Bring your brothers. It’s about the will. Your father.”*
Years earlier, Edith had arrived at work in tears. Her colleagues had barely grasped what was wrong before she wiped her eyes and confessed,
“My husband’s left us for a younger woman.”
“But you’ve been together decades! Who’d have thought?”
“Not me, certainly,” she’d replied bitterly. “He said he stopped seeing me as a woman long ago. Just a housemate, the mother of his sons—not a wife. Not love. He asked for a divorce.”
“Perhaps you smothered him? Men don’t like that…”
“Smothered him? I barely had time to breathe—raising the boys, working, everything on my shoulders. He was a grown man. Just… weak. Always straying when he could. When he’d no money, he’d slink back. But the moment he landed a decent job, suddenly he needed ‘passion’ again.”
After the divorce, he moved in with a younger colleague. There were grand romances, new beginnings, money. Then… like some cheap melodrama. His work crumbled, the money dwindled, and his “love” swiftly found another.
“We’ve tossed your things out front,” her replacement’s new beau had told him. “Fetch them if you like.”
Humiliated and adrift, Richard returned to his ageing mother’s cramped flat in Bristol. There he stayed—no family, no possessions, only regret. He tried to start anew, but the women he met never pleased his mother. She grew bitter, possessive, driving each one away. So he remained alone.
His sons, however, grew despite it all. William, the eldest—steady, dependable. A builder now, married with children. Thomas, the middle—cheerful, kind-hearted, training to be a doctor, wed to a fellow student. The youngest, Edward, remained unmarried but content. “I’m fine on my own,” he’d say.
And now, their father summoned them. Reluctantly, they went. What they found in that damp, cluttered flat shook them: the filth, the neglect, Richard himself—pale, stooped, as if the years had stripped him bare.
“Come in,” he rasped. “Sit. No point standing on ceremony, not with me. Your mother’s gone. I’m alone. Realised I’ve nobody. But you… you’re my sons. My heirs. This flat’s mine. Don’t abandon me, and when I’m gone, it’s yours. Split evenly. Or as you agree…”
The brothers exchanged glances. To say they were moved would be an understatement. Pitying him, they promised to think it over. That evening, gathered at Edith’s, they told her everything—and then it began.
“You’ll let me have your shares, won’t you?” William asked first. “I’ve a family to provide for—I need it more.”
“Hold on,” Thomas frowned. “We’re saving for a child too. Rent’s bleeding us dry. I’d sell my portion, put it toward a mortgage.”
“And what about me?” Edward snapped. “No wife, so no claim? My share’s mine. Sell it, drink it—my choice!”
Voices rose, sharp and accusing. Edith, listening, couldn’t believe how a promised flat had turned her once-close sons against each other.
“Enough!” she cried. “What’s got into you? There’s no flat yet, and already you’re at each other’s throats!”
“Mum, sorry—” William relented first. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s fine,” Thomas muttered. “We’ll manage.”
“I’m not greedy,” Edward added. “Don’t want your bits. Just felt… like I didn’t count.”
Then Edith spoke again, quiet but firm.
“Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll downsize—sell this place, take a smaller one, split the difference between you. So no one feels hard done by.”
“Mum!” they cried in unison. “No! You love it here. We’ll sort it ourselves.”
Edith wept then—not from sorrow, but relief. Her three sons, different as they were, shared one heart. And all her life, she’d fought to keep it whole.
At last, that fight had brought her peace.
