The Inheritance of Another’s Blood
Emily got home from work, stepping into an empty flat that echoed with every footstep and sigh. She hadn’t gotten used to it—over the last two months, loneliness had become more than just a habit; it was like a second skin. Her husband was gone. James—her rock, her love, her everything—had died in a terrible car crash. And just like that, in an instant, the life they’d built together over years had crumbled.
They’d spent seventeen years together. Happy, bright, real ones. After Emily’s first failed marriage, after the pain and running from drunken fists, James was the one who restored her faith in goodness and love. He didn’t just take her in with her two kids—he gave them a home, care, and genuine warmth.
Back then, he lived on the outskirts of Manchester, in a little house with his nan—the woman who’d raised him when his parents couldn’t be bothered. The old lady was poorly, barely able to get about, and James was always away for work. So he’d put an ad out, looking for someone to help care for her. Emily answered it. Worn out, kids in tow, no place to call her own. A friend had put them up for a couple of days, but after that, who knew?
“I can’t pay much,” James had said, looking her straight in the eye.
“I don’t care about money. I just need work and a roof over our heads,” she’d replied.
James thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Stay with us for now. I’m off in a few days—Nan’ll feel better having someone around.”
So she stayed. Three months later, they were living like a family. Love didn’t come straightaway, but when it did, it never left. James became a real dad to her kids—not just in name. Years passed. The kids grew up, moved out. And James and Emily—still together, thick as thieves.
“Next week’s fifteen years since you walked into my life,” James had said one day, pulling her into a hug.
“Don’t remind me,” Emily laughed. “You’ve been my husband in every way but the paperwork.”
“Well, let’s fix that then. Make it official.”
They married. Quietly. No frills, no fuss—just signed the papers and walked out arm in arm, grinning. They were happy. And they had dreams.
After his nan passed, they got this idea—to turn an old derelict house just outside town into a care home for the elderly. Savings, loans, government grants—they poured everything into it. The launch was set for the end of the year. Then the accident changed everything.
Now it all fell to Emily. And she was ready to fight—for their dream.
At the solicitor’s office, they asked, “No other first-line heirs?”
“No,” she said firmly. “He never had kids of his own, didn’t adopt mine. His nan died years ago.”
“Parents?”
Emily shrugged. “Mum lost her rights ages back. His dad—James said he showed up sometimes when he was little. Never met him myself.”
She barely thought twice about that conversation. Who’d even find the man after all this time?
Then one evening, a pounding at the door.
“We know you’re in there!” A rough voice barked. “Open up!”
Emily froze. Peeked through the peephole. A man and a woman, scruffy, faces bloated.
“This is my son’s flat!” the man shouted. “Half of it’s mine!”
“Who the hell are you?” Emily snapped, grabbing her pepper spray, fingers trembling.
“John Roberts. His dad. This is Nina. We’re here about the inheritance.”
“What inheritance?” Emily choked out.
“Our Jimmy’s,” the woman said with a fake, mournful look.
They tried to push in. Emily blocked them. “You’ve got no right!”
A neighbour stepped out of the lift. Emily seized the chance, slammed the door. Behind it, yelling, banging, swearing. The neighbour called the police. The uninvited pair left—but days later, a claim landed at the solicitor’s office. John wanted his share.
“It’s not fair!” Emily fought tears. “He was never there! Not once! Not a single penny! He walked out! I was the one who built everything with James, who lived—”
“I know,” the solicitor’s assistant said gently. “But legally, he’s entitled. Get a lawyer. It’s your best shot.”
So Emily started fighting.
Gathering papers, tracking down witnesses, knocking on doors, hunting anyone who remembered James’s childhood. She dug up records showing no child support. His nan’s old neighbour recalled the time John had turned up drunk, smashed a window, hit the boy. The police had been called—Emily even tracked down the report buried in the archives. His nan had tried to strip John of his rights—paperwork still buried in old photo boxes.
The court battle dragged on. Then fate, as if hearing her pleas, stepped in—John drank himself to death, liver failed. Nina vanished. And in the end, only Emily remained. The one who’d truly been there for James.
By the year’s end, just as they’d dreamed, the care home opened. A brass plaque on the front read: *”The James Roberts Home of Care.”*
Emily stood outside, watching through a window as an old silver-haired lady smiled. And she knew—James would’ve been proud. She’d done it. For both of them.
