**Diary Entry – February 12th**
Helen sat by the window, watching the street below. Buses wheezed and hissed at stops, pedestrians hurried about their business, and all she could think about was yesterday’s post. A black envelope with a gold trim lay untouched on the kitchen table for a full day now. She couldn’t bring herself to open it.
“Blimey, Mum, sitting there like a statue?” Thomas burst in like a whirlwind, tossing his satchel into the corner. “Look miserable again? Let’s have lunch, I’m starving.”
“Go on, then,” Helen sighed, not moving from the window. “Cottage pie’s in the fridge. Zap it.”
Thomas stopped dead centre, studying her posture more carefully. Something seemed off, too stiff.
“What’s wrong?” He moved closer. “You look… dunno, a bit odd.”
“Just a letter that came,” Helen turned to face him. “Wondering whether to open it.”
“What letter? Who from?”
“A solicitor’s. From London.”
Thomas frowned. Solicitor letters rarely brought good news. Debts, lawsuits, trouble.
“What could it be about?” he asked carefully.
“Not sure. Perhaps Aunt Claudia left something. She lived in London these past years, had a flat. But we hadn’t spoken in ages, easily ten years.”
Helen rose and walked to the kitchen. The letter still lay where she’d left it, seeming to mock her hesitation.
“Mum, maybe just open it?” Thomas picked up the envelope. “What’s worse? Knowing?”
“Plenty could be worse,” she muttered. “What if it’s commitments, her debts? Trouble I don’t need.”
“What if it’s good?” Thomas looked ready to rip it, but she stopped him with a hand.
“Hold on. Let me think a minute longer.”
But thought brought little clarity. Aunt Claudia was Helen’s cousin. They’d grown up on the same street, but their lives diverged long ago. Claudia left for the capital after university, married there, worked in some research lab. No kids, husband gone years back. Helen stayed in their town, had Thomas, lost her husband young, worked her whole life as a nursery assistant.
The last time they’d met was at their grandfather’s funeral, ten years back. Claudia seemed a stranger then, a London lady in a posh coat, looking down on provincial relatives.
“Alright, open it,” Helen decided finally. “But if it’s bad, I warned you.”
Thomas carefully slit the envelope and pulled out sheets of paper. He skimmed the first lines and whistled low.
“Mum! It says Aunt Claudia left you her flat. In London.”
“What?” Helen nearly dropped her tea mug. “What flat?”
“Two-bed, near Clapham Common station. And there’s a bank account…” He flipped pages, eyes widening. “Mum, it’s a tidy sum.”
Helen sank onto a chair; her legs had gone weak.
“Can’t be. We barely talked. Why would she leave me all this?”
“Here’s a note. Handwritten.” Thomas passed a small sheet.
*”Ellie, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I know we drifted apart, and that’s rather my fault. Kept thinking I had loads of time to mend fences with family. But time runs out unexpectedly. I want my flat to go to you. You were always kind, living for others. Time to think of yourself. Always, Claudia.”*
Helen read the note several times, tears welling unrecognised.
“What does this mean?” she whispered. “She died… and I didn’t even know. Missed the funeral…”
“Mum, don’t blame yourself. How could you’ve known? Maybe she didn’t want a fuss. Some go quietly.”
“But why me? Other relatives were closer.”
“Seems not close enough. Or she knew them better than you think.”
Helen reread the note. *’Time to think of yourself.’* When had she last done that? Never, it felt. First caring for parents, then raising Thomas alone, working herself to the bone. Now Thomas was grown, twenty-eight, ready for his own life.
“What do we do now?” she asked, bewildered.
“First, go to London. See the flat. Sort the legal stuff.” Thomas was already planning. “Mum, understand? Your life could be different now.”
“Different how?”
“Move to London? Rent it out for income? Sell it for a nicer place here? Options galore.”
Listening, Helen felt something shift inside. Like rusty cogs beginning to turn. Years spent coasting along, day by day. Now—possibilities, choices, a future.
“Don’t know, Thomas. I’m used to here. Work, home…”
“Mum, you’re fifty-three. Not old. Could have a whole new life, if you want.”
“And you? Leave you here alone?”
Thomas laughed. “I’m a grown man. Twenty-eight. High time I sorted my own life, stop leaning on Mum.”
“No one’s leaning!”
“Alright, poor choice of words. But you get it. We both deserve our own happiness.”
That night Helen lay awake. She pictured the London flat. Big? Small? Balcony? Clapham Common… must have a lovely park.
She thought of Claudia in her final months. Alone, ill perhaps. Why hadn’t she reached out? Stubborn pride, maybe. Or shame after years of silence.
Next day, Helen took leave from work. They visited the solicitor—a pleasant man who patiently explained the details.
“The flat’s lovely,” he said. “I saw it for her. Two beds, fourth floor, new décor. Lift, tube nearby, shops. Respectable area.”
“Why leave it to me?” Helen asked.
“Claudia chose carefully. Came several times, weighing options. Wanted it to go to someone who needed it and could be happy.”
“And she picked me?”
“Apparently. She spoke fondly of you. Childhood exploits. Remember rescuing her from some kids teasing her specs?”
Helen recalled. Both ten. Lads picking on Claudia for her glasses, thin frame. Helen grabbed a stick and chased them off.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“She said you were a proper friend then. Remembered it her whole life.”
On the train home, Helen was quiet. Thomas tried talking, but she was deep in thought.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked as they arrived.
“Claudia. How life knots itself. Who’d think that old scrap in the square would matter so much?”
“So, we’ll see the flat? Weekend?”
“We will,” Helen nodded decisively.
London met them with noise, bustle, and endless queues. Helen felt uneasy amid tall buildings and crowds, but found herself fascinated. So much to see, so much possibility.
The flat was better than described. Bright, comfortable, nice furniture, modern fittings. Windows overlooked a courtyard with old linden trees. Quiet. Peaceful.
“Claudia did well,” Helen whispered, looking at framed photos. Gran, one of them as children, arms round each other in the square. Helen picked it up.
“She kept our childhood picture.”
“Meant she remembered. Cared.”
A journal lay on the bedside table. Helen hesitated, then curiosity won. The last entry was a week before Claudia died.
*’Feeling dreadful now. Doctors say not long. Glad I sorted the will. Ellie deserves happiness. She was always the better of us – kinder, sincere, genuine. I spent my life playing roles, acting the London lady. Truth is, I always lacked her simple honesty. Now let her have a chance to live for herself.’*
Helen shut the journal and cried. Not grief, but gratitude, and a strange lightness.
“Mum?” Thomas approached.
“Nothing. Just… Claudia was better than I thought. Wiser.”
They spent three days sorting documents and seeing the city. Helen slowly adjusted
“And she wrote how my childhood act of defending her from bullies in our back garden had always stayed with her, making me realize that even small kindnesses echo across the years.”
