Helen sat by the window, watching the street. Buses squealed to identical halts, pedestrians hurried about their business, yet her mind remained fixed on yesterday’s letter. A black envelope with gilt edging had lain untouched on the kitchen table for a full day; she couldn’t bring herself to open it.
“Mum, why are you sitting there like a statue?” David burst into the flat like a whirlwind, tossing his satchel into the corner. “Feeling down again? Let’s have lunch, I’m starving.”
“Go eat, go eat,” Helen sighed, not turning from the window. “There are pies in the fridge, just heat them up.”
Her son paused mid-stride, scrutinising her posture. Something seemed off, too tense.
“What’s wrong?” David moved closer. “You look… I don’t know, odd.”
“Nothing much,” Helen finally faced him. “Just a letter arrived. Can’t decide whether to open it.”
“What letter? From whom?”
“A solicitor. In London.”
David frowned. Solicitors’ letters rarely heralded good news—usually debts, court matters, or other troubles.
“What could the solicitor possibly say?” he asked cautiously.
“I don’t know. Perhaps Aunt Margaret left something. She lived in London these last years, had a small flat. But we lost touch, must be nearly a decade.”
Helen stood and walked to the kitchen. The envelope still lay there, mocking her indecision.
“Mum, shall we just open it?” David picked it up. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Plenty worse,” his mother muttered. “What if it’s obligations, her debts? Or worse. I don’t need problems landing on my head.”
“What if it’s something good?” David was ready to tear it open, but she stopped him with a gesture.
“Hold on. Let me think.”
Thinking yielded little clarity. Aunt Margaret was Helen’s cousin; they’d grown up on the same Liverpool street, but their paths diverged long ago. Margaret left for the capital after university, married a Londoner, worked at a research institute. She had no children, her husband long gone. Helen stayed in her hometown, had David, buried her husband early, worked her whole life as a nursery nurse.
They last met at their grandfather’s funeral a decade past. Margaret seemed distant then—a London lady in a costly coat, looking down on her provincial relatives.
“Alright, open it,” Helen said finally. “But I warned you if it’s bad.”
David carefully pulled out several sheets of paper. He skimmed the first lines and whistled low.
“Mum, it says Aunt Margaret left you her London flat.”
“What?” Helen nearly dropped her teacup. “What flat?”
“A two-bedroom, near Finsbury Park station. And there’s a bank account…” David flipped pages, eyes widening. “Mum, it’s a serious amount.”
Helen sat on a chair; her legs had turned to jelly.
“Impossible. We barely spoke. Why would she leave me this?”
“There’s a handwritten note from her. With the letter.” David passed her a small page.
*‘Ellie, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I know we grew apart, and I bear the blame. I always thought I had more time, time to mend things. But time can end unexpectedly. I want you to have my flat. You were always kind, living for others. It’s time to think of yourself. Your Maggie.’*
Helen read it several times, disbelief clouding her vision. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks.
“What does this mean?” she whispered. “She died, and I didn’t know. I missed her funeral…”
“Mum, don’t blame yourself. How could you know?” David squeezed her shoulders. “Perhaps she didn’t want people to know. Some prefer to slip away quietly.”
“But why me? She had closer family.”
“Clearly, not as close as you think. Or she knew you better than you knew her.”
Helen reread the note. *’It’s time to think of yourself.’* When had she last done that? Never. First caring for her parents, then raising David alone, working tirelessly. Now her son was grown, twenty-five, soon to start his own family.
“So what do we do now?” she asked, confused.
“Go to London first, see the flat. Sort the paperwork properly.” David was already planning. “Mum, realise what this means? Your whole life could change.”
“How different? What do you mean?”
“Well, you could move to London. Or rent it out for income. Or sell it for a nicer place here. Options abound.”
Helen listened, feeling something shift inside her. Rusty gears began to turn anew. Years spent on inertia, day after day, never planning beyond. Suddenly—choices, possibilities, a future.
“I don’t know, David. I’m settled here. My job, the house…”
“Mum, you’re fifty-two. That’s hardly old. You could have a brand-new life if you want.”
“And what about you? Leave you here alone?”
David laughed. “Mum, I’m a grown bloke. Twenty-five. Time I built my own life, not clung to Mum’s.”
“You don’t cling!” Helen protested.
“Okay, poor choice of words. But you see. We both deserve our own happiness.”
Helen lay awake that night. In the darkness, she pictured the London flat. How big? Did it have a balcony? Bloomsbury, Margaret wrote—probably near beautiful gardens, she recalled.
She also pictured Margaret in her final months. Alone, perhaps ill. Why didn’t she write sooner? Why not ask? Stubborn pride? Or shame after years of silence?
Next day, Helen took time off work. At the solicitor’s, a pleasant, middle-aged man patiently explained the inheritance details.
“The flat is decent,” he confirmed. “I visited myself on her instructions. Two bedrooms, third floor, recent refurbishment. Lift in the building, near the tube, shops. A respectable area.”
“Why leave it to me?” Helen couldn’t help asking.
“Margaret Eleanor took her time choosing. Came several times, weighing her options. Said she wanted her home to go to someone truly needing it, someone who’d find happiness there.”
“She picked me?”
“Evidently. She spoke fondly of you. Childhood friends, you shielding her from schoolyard bullies. Remember?”
Helen remembered. They were ten. Older boys teased Margaret for her glasses and thin frame. Helen grabbed a stick and chased them off.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“She said you were her true friend that day. Never forgot it.”
Helen was quiet on the journey home. David tried chatting, but saw she was deep in thought.
“Thinking about?” he asked as they neared their house.
“Margaret. How life weaves together. Who’d have guessed that old playground moment mattered so much.”
“So, we’ll go see the London flat?”
“We will,” Helen nodded decisively. “This weekend.”
London met them with noise, bustle, endless traffic jams. Helen felt small among towering buildings and crowds, yet slowly the city began to fascinate her. So much life, so many possibilities.
The flat exceeded the solicitor’s description. Bright, welcoming, stylishly furnished, modern appliances. Windows overlooked a courtyard with old plane trees. Quiet and peaceful.
“Maggie did well for herself,” Helen whispered, gazing at photos on a shelf. “Lived with taste.”
One photo showed their grandmother; another, themselves as little girls, arms around each other in the old Liverpool street. Helen picked it up.
“She kept our childhood picture,” she marvelled.
“She remembered. She cared,” said David.
A diary lay on the bedside table. Helen hesitated, but curiosity won. The last entry was dated a week before Margaret’s passing.
*‘So unwell now. Doctors say time is short. Glad I did the will. Ellie deserves happiness. She was always the better person—kinder, warmer, authentic. I spent my life playing roles, acting the London lady. Truth is, I
Even now, as the London rain gently tapped against her windowpane, Gloria felt a quiet warmth spread through her, a daily contentment proof that Klara’s gift, however unexpected its delivery, had truly unlocked a door to joy she’d been too hesitant to open before.
