My name is Eleanor. The tale of my family is woven with sorrow and loss. When I was but five years old, my parents parted ways. My mother sought divorce, having fallen for another man. Soon, she married again, while my father never forgot me—he paid his dues, fetched me on weekends to his home on the outskirts of York. His love was my solace in those bleak years.
Later, Father wed a woman named Margaret, a widow with two children from her first marriage—William and Grace. I grew close to them swiftly. Weekends at Father’s became a cherished escape, where I felt welcomed, part of their warm embrace. Returning to Mother’s house grew unbearable—everything there felt cold and distant.
Mother bore two children with her new husband—a boy and a girl. Together, they ventured into trade, but the business failed. Debts piled high as a Yorkshire hill. They sold their spacious townhouse in York and moved to a cramped terrace on the outskirts. Five souls squeezed into two rooms—life became intolerable.
Her husband took to drink. Mother buried herself in work, leaving me, still a girl, to mind my younger siblings. It broke me. One day, I packed my things and fled to Father’s. From then on, I never saw Mother again. I only heard later that my half-siblings were taken into care, her rights stripped. Her husband vanished like morning mist.
At Father’s, I found life again. Margaret and her mother, Granny Edith, embraced me as their own. Years flew, and now I am four-and-thirty, wed with two children of my own. William and Grace have families too. We’ve become a true family, bound not just by blood but by love.
When Granny Rose—Mother’s own mum—passed, she left me her cottage in a quiet village near York. A year later, Father followed. He willed his city flat to William and Grace, and to me, his motorcar. There was also an unfinished holiday home. We chose not to sell it but to mend it, a place for us all to gather.
Then, when I least expected it, she appeared—my mother. Twenty years had passed since we last met. She tracked down my address and arrived unannounced, as if no time had lapsed.
“Heard Granny left you her house,” she began, no greeting. “And what did your father leave you? You’ve a brother and sister! Where’s the fairness in that? That inheritance isn’t yours alone—it’s ours to share. Sell it all, split the money three ways.”
I stood frozen, scarcely believing my ears. This woman, who’d cast me aside, now demanded I surrender what was dear to me?
“I’ll share nothing,” I said flatly. “Leave.”
Perhaps it was harsh, but I felt no guilt. She is a stranger to me. Her other children are too. My true family is William, Grace, Margaret. They stood by me through the years, sharing joy and sorrow alike.
We finished the holiday home. Now it’s our haven, where we gather with our children, William, Grace, and Margaret. There, we laugh, remember Father and Granny, and dream of days to come. And Mother? She remains in the past, with her grievances and demands. I owe her nothing, and my heart is at peace.
