The old ledger was hidden between the billsa will, signed in fading ink, leaving everything to a woman shed never met.
Did you forget to take your tablets again? the voice snapped.
Dad, how many times must I hear that? Wren slammed a glass of water onto the nightstand with a clatter.
Darling, dont shout. My heads going to split, her father waved a weak hand. Ill take them now, I promise.
Now! You say that every day, and yet they sit untouched in the cupboard! she snapped, eyes flashing.
Andrew Morgan reached for the blister pack with a guilty flick of his wrist. At seventy, the man looked older than his years. A stroke six months ago had left him still fighting for strength.
Ian, dont scold your father, their brother muttered as he entered the room carrying a grocery bag. Hes trying his best.
Trying? If he were really trying hed be better by now! Wren retorted.
Andrew swallowed the pills and leaned back against the pillows. Wren adjusted his blanket, her brow still furrowed.
Dad, you promised to show me where the flat papers are. I need them for the counciltax rebate, she said.
What rebate? he asked.
The one for utilities. I told you I needed it.
Ah, right. He nodded. The drawer on the left of the table. The blue folder.
Wren slipped into the hallway, where the ancient oak desk stood. She and Ian had decided to sort their father’s documents now that his health was precariousto know where everything was, just in case.
She pulled the left drawer open and lifted the blue folder. Inside lay the title deed, a technical registration, and a stack of yellowed receipts. As she sifted through the paperwork, a white envelope stamped Will caught her eye.
Her heart hammered. A will. Their father had drafted one and never mentioned it.
Hands trembling, she broke the seal. A few pages, stamped by a solicitor, lay before her. She began to read.
I, Andrew Morgan, of sound mind and memory, bequeath all my property, namely: the flat at 12 Willow Street, London
She skimmed forward and froze.
to Blythe Eleanor Harper, residing at
She read the line again, then again. Blythe Eleanor Harpera strangers name, never spoken at the dinner table.
Ian, she called, trying to keep her voice steady. Come here.
Ian emerged from the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hand.
Whats wrong?
Wren handed him the will. He scanned the pages, his face paling.
This is what?
I dont get it. Whos Blythe?
No idea, he replied, his voice thin.
They stared at each other, the hallway suddenly too narrow. From the bedroom, their fathers voice drifted out.
Wren, have you found the papers?
Wren slipped the will back into the folder and stepped into the room, Ian following.
Dad, whats this? she thrust the document toward him.
Andrews eyes flickered over the pages, shifting from surprise to bewilderment.
Where did you get that? he asked.
It was in the drawer, with the flat documents.
This this is personal, he said, his tone tightening.
Personal? You left the flat to some woman Ive never heard of! Are we not even your children any more? Wrens voice cracked, rising to a scream.
Sweetheart, calm down
I cant calm down! Who is Blythe Harper? Why hide this from us?
Andrew closed his eyes, breathing heavily.
Its a long story.
Then tell us! Ian sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched. We have a right to know.
Silence stretched. Finally, the old man exhaled a weary sigh.
Lena Eleanor shes my daughter.
The room fell into a suffocating hush. Wren felt the floor tilt beneath her.
Your daughter? she whispered. How?
Before you were born, I had an affair. Lena was born when I was twenty. I didnt learn of her until much later.
Waitso we have a sister we never knew about? Ian rubbed his eyes.
Yes.
And you left her the flat?
Yes.
What about us?
Andrew opened his eyes, the weight of years evident in the lines around them.
Youre grown, you have your own homes, your careers. Lena shes lived a hard life. Her mother died when she was fifteen; she was left alone.
Did you support her? Wren asked.
Yes. As best as I could. Not the way I wanted, but I helped.
Did Mum know?
No. I didnt want to hurt her.
Wren sank into a chair, a storm of thoughts raging. A secret sister, a hidden inheritance.
Dad, do you still see her? Ian asked.
Yes. She sometimes comes when youre not home.
Convenient, Wren muttered, sarcasm cutting through. A secret daughter, secret visits.
Wren, I never meant to hurt you
But you did! she snapped to her feet. The worst part isnt that you have another child. Its that you kept it from us! Were a family!
I was terrified
Of what? That we wouldnt understand? That Mum would leave?
Mums gone, Andrew said softly. She died a year agocancer, quick and merciless.
So you could have told us then, Wren said, tears brimming.
I wanted to. I was looking for the right moment. After the stroke everything got muddled.
Ian, be honest. Does Blythe know about the will?
No.
Are you sure?
Positive. She thinks I live in a rented flat. She has no idea I own anything.
Wren turned to Ian.
We need to meet her.
What for? Andrews voice trembled.
To see the truth with our own eyes.
Please, dont he pleaded.
Its necessary, she said, firm. Give me her number.
Reluctantly, Andrew fished out a crumpled piece of paper, scribbling a telephone number. Wren saved it and left the room, Ian close behind.
In the kitchen, Ian asked, Do you really want to meet her?
I do. What about you?
I dont know. It feels wrong.
Its our sister, Ian! We have to know her.
Maybe shes not who we think. Maybe shes after the flat.
Wren considered the possibility, a knot tightening in her stomach.
That night, after the house had quieted and Andrew was asleep, Wren dialed the number.
Hello? a womans voice answered.
Good evening. Is this Blythe Harper?
Yes. Who is this?
My name is Wren Morgan. Im Andrews daughter.
A pause.
Wren? the voice quivered. How did youhow did you find out about me?
I discovered a will. Can we meet?
I I didnt expect this. Andrew wanted us not to know.
So now we do. When can we meet?
Tomorrow, three oclock? The Old Mill Café on High Street?
Perfect. Ill be there.
Wren hung up, staring out the kitchen window, the weight of tomorrow pressing down. She would finally meet the sister she never knew she had.
The next morning she told Ian.
Im going too, he said.
Afraid Ill be rough?
Afraid shell be a fraud.
Maybe. But we have to try.
They arrived at the café a quarterhour early, choosing a table by the window. Wren fidgeted with a napkin, her pulse racing.
At three, the door opened. A woman in her midforties, short, clad in a plain grey coat, stepped in. Her hair was pulled back, makeup minimal. She scanned the room, eyes locking on Wren.
Blythe stood, a nervous smile forming.
Hello, she whispered.
Sit, Ian gestured, pulling out a chair.
Blythe sat, hands trembling.
You look so much like Andrew, she said, studying Wrens face.
You look like him too, Wren replied, noting the same sharp nose and pale blue eyes.
My mother, Olivia, was with Andrew when we were twenty. She got pregnant, he fled in fear. She raised me alone, Blythe began. When I was fifteen, Olivia fell ill with cancer. Knowing she wouldnt live long, she tried to locate Andrew, begged him to look after me.
And he did? Wren asked.
He visited when he couldbrought money, food. After Olivia died he helped me get into a college dormitory, paid my tuition.
Was he married then?
Yes, to your mother. He had a family already. He asked me never to tell anyone, said it would ruin his marriage.
And you kept that secret?
What could I do? I was grateful for his help.
Wren felt a mixture of pity and anger rise. Blythes voice broke.
Im not after the flat. I just need my fathers health to improve. I visit him on Thursdays, when youre not home.
Ian, you said you work Thursdays too, Wren remembered.
Exactly, Blythe said, eyes widening. Thats why I come when youre away.
Do you know about the will? Wren asked directly.
No. I never heard of any will.
It says everything belongs to me, Blythe whispered, turning pale.
They wrote it, Wren said gently. Andrew signed it.
Blythe covered her face with her hands. I never asked for this. I just wanted a father who could look after me.
Its complicated, Ian said, leaning back.
Blythe sighed. I work as a nursery assistant, rent a tiny room, barely scrape by. The flat would change everything, but I dont want it to cause more pain.
Wren reached across the table, her hand resting on Blythes.
Do you need anything else? she asked.
Just that Dad is healthy. That we can be a family without secrets.
The conversation drifted to mundane thingsjobs, children, hopes. Blythe confessed shed never known a sister, never had anyone to share a birthday with. Wren felt the walls between them crumble.
When they rose, Wren pulled Blythe into a hug.
Come by on Sunday. Meet Dad properly, with all of us.
Blythes eyes filled with tears. Really?
Yes.
Back at the flat, Wren confronted Andrew.
Why did you leave the flat to her?
He stared at the ceiling, voice hoarse. Because I owe her. I abandoned her mother. I never gave her the life she deserved. This is my way of making amends.
What about us? she asked.
You have your own homes, your jobs. I thought this would give her a chance.
Could you have just given her money?
I did, as best I could. When I die, who will look after her?
Wren pressed his hand. Well all look after each other.
That Sunday the flats dining room filled with laughter. Andrew sat at the head, eyes bright with unshed tears. Blythe arrived with a modest cake shed baked herself, nerves evident in the way she brushed stray hairs from her face.
Ladies and gentlemen, Andrew announced, voice shaking, this is my daughter Blythe. Shes my child, just as you are.
Blythe blushed, the rooms attention making her glow. Wrens husband, Stephen, raised his glass.
To new beginnings, he toasted.
The family clinked glasses, the tension melting like snow under a spring sun. Andrew wept, happy for the first time in years.
Later, as the guests filtered out, Wren lingered with Blythe.
Weve decided, she said, the flat will be split three waysbetween you, me, and Ian.
Blythes mouth fell open. I cant accept that. I dont want it, really.
You do, Wren insisted. Were a family now. Well help you find a place, or you can live here with us. Its not about the moneyits about belonging.
Blythe nodded, tears streaming. Thank you. Ive never felt this welcome before.
Months passed. Andrews health steadied, his doctors noting his improved spirits. Blythe stopped coming on secret Thursdays; she visited openly on weekends, helping with chores and sharing stories over tea.
One afternoon, Wren asked, Blythe, do you still feel angry at Dad for keeping you hidden?
She thought, then replied, I was angry as a child. I watched other girls brag about their fathers, while I had none. But I understand he was scared, young, terrified of ruining his life. He did what he could.
And your mother? Wren pressed.
She forgave him on her deathbed. She told me to let go, to love whats left.
Wren squeezed her hand. Were sisters now. Thats what matters.
The family eventually rewrote the will, dividing the property equally. Andrew, smiling, said, Happiness isnt in bricks or pounds. Its in the people standing beside you.
Wren looked at Blythe chatting with Ians children, her laughter filling the room. The secret that once threatened to tear them apart had forged a stronger bond.
Life, she thought, is a strange thing. What seems like disaster can become a blessing, if youre brave enough to face the truth and forgive. The legacy of a hidden daughter turned into a new chapter of love, acceptance, and a family that finally felt whole.
