**Inheritance**
The old, spacious flat buzzed with unusual activity. The doorbell jangled every so often, and another relative stepped inside. This time, it was a burly man in an expensive suit, the jacket straining over his protruding stomach.
A pale, plain woman gave him a sour smile, while a man rose from the sofa and approached him.
“Stephen! Didn’t think you’d come.” The men shook hands. “Sit down, tell me how life’s been.”
The woman sulkily shuffled to the other end of the sofa, making room.
*”This is Ivan’s wife? After all those girls he had, he married someone like…”* Stephen couldn’t even find the words.
The flat echoed with another ring of the bell. All three turned their heads. They’d been waiting for the last expected guest. In the doorway stood a tall man in black trousers and a dark blue jumper, crisp white shirt peeking beneath.
Boris gave a curt greeting, glanced around, and settled into a worn armchair in the far corner.
*”Look at him—Boris, the dandy.”* Stephen recognised him instantly, though it had been thirty years. Now all three brothers were here, three heirs, circling like vultures. Stephen had hoped no one else would come, least of all Boris.
They’d received invitations to bid farewell to Auntie Anne. That’s what the note had said: *”to say goodbye.”* The address was included, in case they’d forgotten.
Stephen lived comfortably now—a good job, a house in London, two daughters, one already a grandmother. He didn’t need his aunt’s inheritance. He’d come out of curiosity.
The flat had once seemed enormous to him, full of dark corners, looming furniture, a grandfather clock that ticked too loud.
When their father fell from scaffolding on a construction site, their mother withered from grief. How could she raise three boys alone? Ivan, the youngest, wasn’t even five. Life was hard. Then, out of the blue, their mother’s estranged brother arrived and offered to take the boys—at least the two eldest—for a while. He gave their mother money, then left with them. She drowned her sorrows in drink and soon died.
Auntie Anne was strict, cold. She fed and clothed them, tried to love them. Stephen, ever ambitious, saw his chance and curried favour with his uncle and her. Boris, though, kept to himself, refusing to bond with his new family. He left school early, never attended university like Stephen, and returned to his hometown. Took odd jobs, studied part-time. Their uncle sent him money at first, but Boris sent it back, scribbling, *”Don’t need it.”*
Stephen married during his final year at university and moved to Manchester with his wife’s family. Ivan grew up wild—the black sheep of the family.
*”This place needs work. Could sell it for a tidy sum though. And the furniture—solid, antique. Then there’s the crystal, the savings… unless they vanished in the financial crash.”* Stephen caught himself, realising he was daydreaming too soon.
His eyes kept flicking to Boris, who sat impassively, legs crossed. Ivan and his wife whispered, stealing glances at their brothers. *”Boris was always the odd one out. Ivan will blow his share.”* Stephen felt he alone deserved what Auntie Anne left behind.
A pretty young woman had let them in—likely the nurse. Just as the thought crossed his mind, a wheelchair rolled in, carrying a hunched old woman, her head lolling, a thick blanket over her lap. The girl positioned it so everyone could see her. By contrast, she looked even fresher, more striking.
For the brothers, seeing their aunt alive was a shock.
Stephen did the maths—she had to be in her eighties. Why had he assumed she was dead? The telegram had only said *”to say goodbye.”*
He studied her with a mix of fascination and dread. Her face was a map of wrinkles, liver spots, wiry grey hair sticking out. Arthritic hands rested on the armrests. Time had not been kind to the proud, elegant woman he remembered.
“Anne is pleased to see you all,” the girl announced brightly.
“At her request, I found you all. Apologies if the telegram was unclear. She wanted to see you, settle the inheritance without quarrels later.”
“Oh? So our wishes *will* be considered?” Stephen perked up.
“Not exactly. Let’s have tea. Could you help?” she asked Ivan’s wife.
“And you are?” Stephen cut in.
“This is Verity, my granddaughter,” came Anne’s rasping voice.
Stephen gaped, then shot Boris a look. No reaction. Ivan, though, shifted uncomfortably.
*”Ivan’s daughter? Another heir. Damn. Need proof of that.”*
When only the brothers remained with their aunt, she spoke again.
“Thank you for coming. Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Not for me—for the money. Well, you’ll each get what you deserve. Just don’t fight over my grave if you don’t like the will.”
“Is there even anything worth fighting for?” Stephen asked.
“You’ve changed. Boris, glad you came, though you never liked me. And Ivan—still the rogue.”
“I may be old, but I’m not senile.” Her head drooped, eyes closing. Stephen thought she’d dozed off. The brothers exchanged glances.
Soon, Verity returned, calling them to tea. Ivan bolted for the kitchen like a man reprieved. Boris and Stephen stayed put.
“You two never made up?” Anne murmured suddenly.
“Didn’t quite work out,” Stephen answered for them both.
“You’ve gotten fat—that jacket might burst. Life’s been good. Why didn’t you bring your wife?”
“Busy—she’s a headmistress,” Stephen bragged. “Two daughters, both married. One’s made me a grandfather.”
“Brothers should stick together. You’re all I have left. And Verity. The flat goes to her. Don’t stare, Stephen. She’s cared for me ten years. You? Not a birthday card, not a visit. I tried to be a mother to you. Failed with Boris, but *you*, Stephen?”
Flustered, he had no answer.
“There’s the cottage too. Solid place, plenty of land. Remember how you loved it there, Boris? And that old ’78 Mercedes in the garage. A classic now.”
“I’ll be fair,” she grinned, yellowed but intact teeth flashing. The sight sent a shiver down Stephen’s spine. *”Tough old bird. Still has her own teeth. Witch.”*
“Verity!” The girl appeared instantly.
“Tired. Bed,” Anne muttered.
Stephen only then noticed it was dark outside. The grandfather clock read nearly ten. It felt like mere hours since he’d arrived—time slipping away like a cat’s tongue lapping cream.
Verity wheeled Anne out.
“Thought she was dead. Came to mourn, and she’s alive,” Stephen muttered.
Boris said nothing.
“She’s named the will—means she’ll die now, right?” Stephen joked. Boris didn’t laugh.
Verity arranged rooms for them. Ivan had already left for a hotel.
Stephen couldn’t sleep. Every creak made him start. He even checked the corridor—empty, dark, drafty. By dawn, he dozed off.
Morning brought silence. No footsteps, no voices. *”Nerves. Shouldn’t have come.”* He sighed, dressed in yesterday’s shirt—something he never did. *”Thought it’d be a one-day trip. Now I’m stuck.”*
In the kitchen, breakfast was laid. Coffee steamed. His stomach growled.
*”Did Verity make this? Not bad. Too young for me, though. And married…”* He ate, sipping coffee, when the bell rang.
A short, round doctor in a white coat entered, Verity trailing.
“Is Anne alright?” Stephen asked. Ignored.
He followed, but Verity blocked him. “You can’t go in.” The door shut in his face.
He tried Ivan’s room—empty. *”What’s happening?”*
In the hall, he cornered the doctor. “Leaving already? How is she?”
“She died last night.”
“From what?”
“Old age.” The doctor shrugged.
“She didn’t want the morgue. The funeral’s tomorrow,” Verity said, eyes red.
“You mean she’ll just *lie* here? Hell no!” Stephen near-shrieked.
“If it bothers you, I’ll book you a hotel—”
“Do. I won’t stay another minute.”
“But don’t leave town. The will’s to be read after.”
Stephen waved her off and moved to a nearby hotel.
At the funeral, he felt no grief. Ivan and his wife watched with detached interest. Surprisingly, Boris wept.
Back at the flat, the wake was laid. Two small women bustled in the kitchen.
Ivan, tipsy, revealed they’dAs Verity stepped onto the cottage porch, she saw Boris standing by the old Mercedes, the keys in his hand, and for the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.
