**Diary Entry, 12th June**
Grandfather left me a crumbling cottage in the countrysidehis final gift. When I first stepped inside, I was speechless.
While my sister, Charlotte, inherited a sleek two-bedroom flat in central London, I was handed this derelict house. My husband, James, called me a disappointment and moved in with her. With nothing left, I retreated to the village, and the moment I crossed the threshold, I was utterly stunned.
The solicitors office smelled of musty parchment and old wood. I sat on a stiff chair, my palms damp. Beside me, Charlotte scrolled through her phone, her manicured nails tapping the screen. Dressed in a tailored suit, she looked bored, as if this were an inconvenience, not a family matter. I twisted the strap of my worn handbag, feeling small next to her.
At thirty-four, I still felt like the quiet younger sisterthe one who worked at the village library, content with simple things while Charlotte climbed corporate ladders, earning more in a month than I did in a year.
The solicitor, an elderly man with round spectacles, cleared his throat and opened a file. The ticking of the wall clock filled the silence.
Grandfathers voice echoed in my mind: *”Lifes most important moments happen in stillness.”*
Then, in a dry tone, the solicitor read: *”The last will and testament of Alfred Edward Whitmore.”*
*”I bequeath the two-bedroom flat on Kensington High Street, along with its furnishings, to my granddaughter, Charlotte Eleanor Whitmore.”*
Charlotte didnt even glance up, as if shed expected it. My chest ached. Again, I was second.
She was always firsttop grades, a prestigious university, a wealthy husband. Designer clothes, holidays abroad, everything effortless. And me? Id lived in her shadow my whole life.
*”Furthermore, the cottage in Little Bexley, including the landapproximately one acreis bequeathed to my granddaughter, Emily Margaret Whitmore.”*
I froze. The cottage? The same one Grandfather had lived in, barely standing? Id visited only a handful of times as a child. Even then, the roof sagged, the paint peeled, and the garden was a wilderness.
Charlotte finally looked at me, smirking. *”Well, Em, at least you got something. Though, honestly, what will you do with that wreck? Bulldoze it and sell the land?”*
I swallowed hard. Why had Grandfather done this? Did he, too, think me undeserving of anything better?
Later, outside, James was waiting by his battered Volvo, smoking impatiently. *”So? What did you get?”*
When I told him, his face darkened. *”A cottage in the middle of nowhere? Youre joking. Charlotte gets a flat worth half a million quid, and you get a ruin?”*
He slammed his fist on the bonnet. *”Youve ruined everythingagain!”*
That night, he told me he wanted a divorce. *”Youre holding me back,”* he said. *”Charlotte understands ambition. You? Youre happy with scraps.”*
I packed my things and left.
The first night in the cottage, I barely slept. The floorboards creaked, the wind whistled through cracks, and yet I felt safe. No James. No Charlotte. No judgment.
By morning, I found an envelope hidden under a pillow. Grandfathers handwriting: *”For my dear Emily.”*
Inside, a letter:
*”If youre reading this, Im gone, and youve come home. I knew you wouldnot Charlotte. Because you see beauty where others dont. You once asked me about hidden treasures. Well, my love, I spent my life collecting them.”*
A treasure? Buried beneath the old apple tree in the garden.
I dug until my hands blisteredand there it was. A rusted metal box filled with gold sovereigns, Victorian jewellery, and antique watches.
A fortune.
The next day, an appraiser confirmed it: *”At least £200,000. Possibly more at auction.”*
James called, suddenly remorseful. *”Lets talk, Em. Maybe we rushed things?”*
I laughed. He didnt want mehe wanted the money.
Charlotte, too, demanded her share. *”That treasure belongs to the family!”*
But Grandfathers words echoed: *”Wealth should make you kinder, not crueller.”*
I kept the cottage, restored it, and opened a little bookshop in the village.
James and Charlotte? They got nothing.
And for the first time, I was enough.
**Emily Whitmore**
