My name is Emily. A week ago, my brother, William, turned up on the doorstep of my cottage in the Yorkshire Dales after years of silence. He handed me a shoebox stuffed with cash—his life’s savings—and vanished, leaving me in a right muddle. The money burns a hole in my pocket, and his sad tale twists my heart. Now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place: hand it over to his wife and daughter, who wanted nowt to do with him, or keep it? My conscience nags at me, but fear and doubt tie me in knots. What do you do when doing the right thing might unravel old wounds?
They say village life means everyone’s thick as thieves, always there for one another. Well, tell that to the younger lot, who bolt for the cities the moment they can. As the baby of the family, I stayed behind with Mum and Dad. My older sister, Margaret, married young and flitted off to Australia with her bloke. Always moaned about having to mind me and William, never hid how much we got on her nerves. Lost touch years ago—turns out the cosy village ideal’s a load of old nonsense.
William was different. No genius, but decent as they come, with a joke for every occasion—life and soul of the pub. I loved him for it. He married a lass from the next village over, moved into her place, never brought her round ours. Worked his fingers to the bone on construction sites, but money was always tight. His wife, Dorothy, and her lot were tighter than a duck’s backside, so William juggled odd jobs to keep them afloat. When I got married, he wasn’t there—off labouring in Germany. Dorothy was expecting, so I understood. Still, it stung.
Years rolled by. I settled down with my husband, George, raised three kids, tended the house. William slogged as a docker in Rotterdam, sending cash back for Dorothy’s dream house. Their daughter, my niece Alice, grew up, but Dorothy never brought her round. Contact with William fizzled out, another ghost in my life. Thank goodness for George—solid as oak, kept me sane.
Then, out of the blue, William rang. Voice shaky, he confessed he’d fallen for another woman and couldn’t lie to Dorothy anymore. Left her every penny, promised child support till Alice turned eighteen, then walked. Hurt like hell, but I admired his honesty. Dorothy cut us off completely, banned Mum and Dad from seeing Alice. Broke their hearts, but what could I do?
Last week, William showed up at my door. Barely recognised him—face weathered, sun-spotted, years of graft etched deep. But he grinned, cracked jokes like old times. Then his eyes went dim. Told me his new love had died of cancer. No kids. Dorothy slammed the door in his face; Alice said he was dead to her. He’d come to say goodbye, reckoned he didn’t have long. Pressed that shoebox into my hands—£17,000, his entire nest egg. “No use to me,” he said. Then he left. No address, no way to reach him.
Now I’m sat here, staring at the money, feeling sick. Maybe he picked me only because they’d rejected him. This cash is his heartache, his sacrifice. Alice is grown, but doesn’t she deserve a share? Or Dorothy, who raised her alone? The thought of facing them churns my stomach—Dorothy’s as cold as a January morning, and Alice washed her hands of him. But William taught me to do right. What if he’d changed his mind later?
George and I could use this—fix up the roof, put the kids through uni. No way to give it back. But keeping it feels like theft. Do I march over to Dorothy’s, risk a tongue-lashing? Or trust William knew what he was doing? My conscience is in tatters, and his ghost won’t let me be. Anyone else been this tangled? How do you choose honesty when it might wreck everything? I’ll figure it out. But for now, this weight’s all mine, and it’s crushing me.