“No need,” Vera said suddenly. “You know what—take the house as it is. I’ll keep the cottage. Even if it’s worth less.”
“Margaret, are you sure you read it carefully?” Vera’s voice trembled with nerves. “Perhaps there’s something between the lines?”
“I read it, I read it! Here, see for yourself.” The solicitor slid the document across the desk. “It’s the standard clause: ‘By this will, I revoke all previous wills.’ Nothing more.”
Anne sat thunderstruck, twisting her glasses in her hands, putting them on and taking them off. Vera fidgeted with her handbag, while Eugene, the youngest of the late Clara Wilson’s three children, simply stared blankly ahead.
“But how can this be?” Anne finally managed. “Mum always said she’d settled everything—the house and cottage divided between us. Remember, Vera? She explained it all last summer.”
“Of course I remember!” Vera threw up her hands. “She said you’d get the house, Anne, because of the children, while I’d take the cottage—I spend every summer there. And Eugene would get the savings—he lives in London, no need for property here.”
Eugene lifted his head and looked at his sisters.
“I thought Mum was just talking. You know how she loved planning things out. Never imagined she’d actually made a will.”
Margaret cleared her throat delicately.
“You see, Clara Wilson did make a will—but it was ten years ago. Then, it seems, she changed her mind and wrote a new one, revoking the old. Only, she forgot to specify who got what. Or perhaps she didn’t have time. It happens, I’m afraid.”
Anne stood and paced the office. At forty-three, she taught at the local school, raising two children alone after her divorce. Her mother’s old house had been her last hope for a home of her own.
“So now everything must be split equally?” she asked, fighting back tears. “Three ways?”
“Precisely. The house, the cottage, the bank accounts—all divided equally.”
Vera scoffed.
“Good! Anne was already sulking, thinking she’d get everything. As if my pension stretches far enough to cover a few square metres of garden!”
“Vera!” Anne protested. “What’s your pension got to do with it? You know what Mum wanted!”
“Oh, I know! But wanting isn’t enough—she should’ve put it in writing. Our dear mother, God rest her, always left things to the last minute.”
Eugene stood and buttoned his coat.
“Enough arguing. We’ll sort this at home. Margaret, when should we return?”
“In a week. I’ll prepare the inheritance papers. But first, decide among yourselves who takes what. If you can’t agree, the courts will decide for you.”
Outside, a miserable October drizzle fell. Anne pulled up her hood while Vera opened her umbrella. Eugene lit a cigarette, muttering under his breath.
“Shall we go to a café?” Anne suggested. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Vera snapped. “It’s obvious you’re upset you won’t get everything. But Mum had three children, not just you.”
“Vera, why are you so cross? It’s not my fault the will’s so odd.”
“Not odd—fair!” Vera snapped her umbrella shut so hard droplets sprayed everywhere.
Eugene stubbed out his cigarette on the wet bench.
“Enough! It’s raining, people are staring. Let’s go to Anne’s, have tea, and talk properly.”
Anne’s house was fifteen minutes away. They walked in silence, lost in thought. Clara’s home stood on a quiet lane, shabby but sturdy. The windows were boarded, the gate padlocked.
“Who has the keys?” Eugene asked.
“I do.” Anne pulled a keyring from her pocket. “Took them after the funeral—thought I’d clear things out.”
The garden was overgrown, the apple trees untrimmed, the greenhouse sagging. Inside smelled of damp and neglect.
“Oh, Mum,” Vera sniffed. “Look at the state of it.”
The sitting room held old furniture, a piano where all three had once practised, a cabinet with crystal glasses. Photographs lined the walls—their parents’ wedding, school portraits, grandchildren.
Anne put the kettle on and fetched biscuits from the pantry. They sat at the round table where the family had once gathered.
“Remember how Mum made us do homework here?” Vera said softly. “And we always tried to sneak off outside.”
“And Eugene,” Anne smiled, “that algebra mark in Year Seven. Mum threatened the belt, then stayed up all night helping you.”
Eugene nodded.
“Strict but fair. Never favoured any of us.”
Vera stirred sugar into her tea.
“Fair? Then why rewrite the will in your favour? Me the cottage, you the money, Anne the house. The house was worth the most!”
“Vera, what’s fairness got to do with it?” Anne sighed. “Mum just thought about what each of us needed. I’ve the children, rented rooms—the house would help. You’ve your flat but love the cottage. And Eugene’s in London—money’s more use than property.”
“Easy to say when you get the most!”
Eugene slammed the table.
“Enough! Vera, listen to yourself. Mum’s been gone a month, and we’re squabbling like dogs over her things!”
Silence fell. Only the clock ticked and the rain drummed outside.
“Perhaps,” Anne said, standing by the window, “Mum did this on purpose?”
“How?” Vera frowned.
“Think about it. She was clever, always planned ahead. Would she really forget to name who got what?”
Eugene frowned.
“What are you saying?”
“That maybe she wanted us to decide for ourselves. To divide things fairly, with kindness. Remember how she’d say, ‘You’re grown—you know right from wrong.’”
Vera snorted.
“Now you’re making her a saint. Maybe she just didn’t finish it. She was ill at the end.”
“Perhaps,” Anne conceded. “But we’re here—we can still do as she wished.”
“Meaning?” Vera narrowed her eyes.
“Exactly as she told us. Me the house, you the cottage, Eugene the savings.”
“Ha!” Vera leapt up. “I knew it! You’ve been steering this all along! The house is worth far more!”
“Vera, calm down,” Eugene said. “Let’s be practical. The house is worth more—but look at the state of it.” He tapped the wall. “Peeling wallpaper, ancient plumbing, wiring from the sixties. And the roof leaks. Anne, could you even afford repairs?”
“No,” she admitted quietly. “But at least I’d have a roof.”
Vera sat back down, silent for a moment.
“And the cottage? The greenhouse’s collapsing, the paths are weeds, the fence is crooked. That’ll cost a fortune too.”
“But the land’s good,” Eugene pointed out. “By the river—it could sell well if fixed up.”
“So what do you suggest?” Vera asked.
Eugene lit another cigarette—something he’d never have dared when Mum was alive.
“We get everything valued and split it fairly. Either sell or divide, but honestly.”
“How would we value it?” Anne asked. “Hire someone?”
“We could. Or estimate ourselves. Or—perhaps we don’t divide anything.”
The sisters stared.
“What do you mean?” Vera asked.
“The house isn’t much use to any of us as it is. Anne, could you even live here without rebuilding?”
“No,” she admitted.
“And the cottage needs work. Vera, could you manage alone?”
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m not as young as I was.”
“Exactly. What if we sell it all and split the money? Then each buys what they truly need.”
Anne hesitated. It made sense—yet something in her resisted.
“It’d be a shame to sell Mum’s house. Our whole lives were here.”
“Lives pass, houses remain,” Eugene said. “What’s the use if it crumbles unused?”
Vera twisted her empty cup.
“Maybe Eugene’s right. Sell it, split the money, no debts between us.”
Anne sighed.
“All right. But let’s not rush. Think it over for a week.”
“Agreed,” Eugene nodded. “I’ll visit this weekend, see what can be salvaged.”
Darkness fell early, as it does in October. Eugene left for his hotel, Vera for her flat. Anne stayed alone in her mother’s house, touching familiar things.
In the bedroom, on the nightstand, lay Clara’s notebook. Anne flicked through it—doctors’ numbers, friends’ addresses. On the last page, in pencil:
*Anne—house & garden. Vera—cottage
