“No need,” Vera said abruptly. “You know what, take the house as it is. I’ll take the cottage. Even if it’s worth less.”
“Marjorie, are you absolutely sure you read it carefully?” Vera’s voice trembled with anxiety. “Maybe there’s something between the lines?”
“I read it, I read it!” The solicitor pushed the document across the desk. “It’s just the standard wording: ‘By this will, I revoke all previous wills.’ That’s all. Nothing more.”
Anne sat thunderstruck, twisting her glasses in her hands, putting them on and taking them off again. Vera fiddled nervously with the strap of her handbag, while Eugene, the youngest of the late Clara Wilson’s three children, just stared blankly into space.
“But how can this be?” Anne finally managed. “Mum always said she’d sorted it all out, that the house and cottage were divided between us. Remember, Vera? She explained it last summer.”
“Of course I remember!” Vera threw up her hands. “She said the house would go to you, Annie, because you’ve got the kids, and the cottage to me—I spend every summer there. And Eugene would get the savings—he lives in London, he doesn’t need property here.”
Eugene looked up at his sisters.
“I thought Mum was just talking. You know how she loved planning things, discussing them. I never imagined she actually wrote a will.”
Marjorie cleared her throat delicately.
“Clara did write a will. But that was years ago—ten, at least. Later, she must have changed her mind and wrote a new one, revoking the old. Only she never got around to redistributing the estate in the new will. Or perhaps she ran out of time. It happens, unfortunately.”
Anne stood and paced the office. At forty-three, she worked as a teacher 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 we divide everything by law? Equal shares among the three of us?” she asked, fighting back tears.
“Exactly. The house, the cottage, the bank accounts—all split equally.”
Vera scoffed.
“Good! Annie here was already sulking, thinking she’d get everything. What do I care? A little cottage plot isn’t worth my pension.”
“Vera!” Anne protested. “What’s your pension got to do with it? You know perfectly well what Mum wanted!”
“Oh, I remember! But wanting isn’t enough—you’ve got to put it in writing. And our dear mum, God rest her soul, always was one to leave things to the last minute.”
Eugene buttoned his coat.
“Enough arguing. We’ll sort this out properly at home. Marjorie, when should we come back?”
“A week from now. I’ll have the documents ready. But first, you’ll need to decide among yourselves who gets what. If you can’t agree, the court will decide for you.”
Outside, a miserable October drizzle fell. Anne pulled up her hood; Vera opened her umbrella. Eugene lit a cigarette, muttering under his breath.
“Shall we go to a café? We need to talk,” Anne suggested.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Vera snapped. “It’s obvious you’re upset you’re not getting everything. Mum had three children, not just you.”
“Vera, why are you so angry? It’s not my fault the will’s so strange.”
“Not strange—fair!” Vera snapped her umbrella shut so hard water sprayed in all directions.
Eugene stubbed his cigarette out on the wet bench.
“Enough, both of you. It’s raining, people are staring. Let’s go to Anne’s place, have some tea, and talk this through calmly.”
Anne’s house was a fifteen-minute walk away. They walked in silence, each lost in thought. Clara’s home stood on a quiet street, shabby but solid. The windows were boarded up, the gate locked with a padlock.
“Who’s got the keys?” Eugene asked.
“I do,” Anne said, pulling a ring from her pocket. “Took them after the funeral, thought I’d tidy up.”
Inside, the garden was overgrown, the apple trees untrimmed, the greenhouse leaning. The house smelled musty.
“Oh, Mum,” Vera whispered. “Look at the state of it.”
The sitting room was just as they remembered—old furniture, the piano where all three had learned to play, the sideboard with its crystal glasses. Photos lined the walls: their parents’ wedding, school portraits, grandchildren.
Anne put the kettle on and fetched biscuits from the cupboard. They sat around the table where the family had once gathered.
“Remember how Mum used to make us do our homework here?” Vera said quietly. “And we’d always try to sneak off outside.”
“And remember, Eugene, when you failed algebra in Year Seven?” Anne smiled. “Mum threatened the belt, then stayed up all night helping you with sums.”
Eugene nodded.
“Strict but fair. Never favoured any of us—scolded and praised us all the same.”
Vera stirred sugar into her tea.
“Fair, you say? Then why did she want the will in your favour? Cottage for me, money for you, house for Annie. The house is worth the most!”
“Vera, what’s fairness got to do with it?” Anne sighed. “Mum just thought about who needed what. I’ve got kids, no home of my own—of course the house would help. You’ve got your flat, but you love the cottage. And Eugene’s in London—money’s more use to him than property.”
“Easy for you to say when you’re getting the most!”
Eugene slammed his fist on the table.
“Enough! Vera, listen to yourself! Mum died a month ago, and here we are, squabbling like dogs over her things!”
Silence fell. Only the ticking clock and the rain outside filled the quiet.
“Maybe,” Anne said, standing by the window, “Mum did this on purpose?”
“How do you mean?” Vera frowned.
“Think about it. Mum was clever—she planned everything. Do you really think she’d forget to write down who got what?”
Eugene frowned.
“What are you getting at?”
“Maybe she wanted us to decide for ourselves. To split things fairly, by conscience. Remember what she always said? ‘You’re grown-ups—you ought to know right from wrong.’”
Vera snorted.
“Oh, sure. Now you’re making her out to be a saint. Maybe she just didn’t have time. She was ill those last months.”
“Maybe she didn’t,” Anne agreed. “But we’re still here. We can do what she wanted.”
“How?” Vera asked warily.
“The way she told us. House for me, cottage for you, money for Eugene.”
“Ha!” Vera jumped up. “I knew it! You’ve been leading up to this! Think I’m stupid? The house is worth far more!”
“Vera, calm down,” Eugene said. “Let’s think this through. The house is worth more, but look at its state. The wallpaper’s peeling, the plumbing’s ancient, the wiring’s probably pre-Thatcher. And the roof? I saw the leaks. Anne, do you have any idea what repairs would cost?”
“I do,” she said quietly. “I’ll never afford it on a teacher’s salary. But at least it’d be my own roof.”
Vera sat back down, silent for a moment.
“And the cottage’s any better? The greenhouse’s falling apart, the paths are weeds, the fence is crooked. That’ll cost a fortune too.”
“But the land’s good,” Eugene said. “Lovely spot by the river. Fix it up, and it’d sell well.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Vera asked.
Eugene lit another cigarette—something he’d never have dared do in front of Mum.
“We get everything properly valued and split it fairly. Either in cash or kind, but properly.”
“How?” Anne asked. “Pay for an appraiser?”
“We could. Or work it out ourselves. Or—maybe we don’t split anything.”
His sisters stared.
“What do you mean?” Vera asked.
“Sell it all. Split the money. Then everyone gets what they actually need.”
Anne hesitated. It made sense, but something in her resisted.
“It’d be a shame to sell Mum’s house. Our whole life’s here.”
“Life’s gone. The house is just bricks,” Eugene said. “What’s the point if it just rots?”
Vera twirled her empty glass.
“You know what? 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, then decide.”
“Agreed,” Eugene said. “Meanwhile, I’ll come by at the weekend, see what’s salvageable. Maybe there’s a way to fix things
