**Diary Entry – A House Returned**
Lydia Whitaker stood by the window, staring at the neighbouring garden where a younger woman pegged laundry onto the washing line. A stranger, in the house that should have been hers. The house where she’d grown up, where her youth had passed, where her mother had taken her last breath.
“Lyd, what are you staring at?” called her younger sister Nina, stepping into the kitchen with shopping bags. “Your tea’s gone cold.”
“Just looking,” Lydia sighed, turning away from the window. “Watching her play housekeeper.”
“Stop tormenting yourself,” Nina began unpacking the groceries. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got your own flat. I’m just a burden on your shoulders.”
“Don’t talk rubbish. You’re no trouble, you know that.”
Lydia sat at the table and picked up her lukewarm cup. The tea was bitter, unsweetened—sugar had become a luxury. Since losing the house, money had been tight. A meagre pension split between two was hardly enough.
“Nina, do you remember what Mum said about the will?” Lydia asked, stirring her tea absently.
“Of course. She promised the house would be split between us.”
“Exactly. Split. But instead, it all went to Valerie’s girl.”
Nina sank heavily into a chair. The will was a wound neither of them could heal.
“Lyd, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Mum wasn’t herself in her final years. The doctors said it was dementia.”
“But she didn’t write that will alone! There was a solicitor, witnesses. How could they let a confused woman hand everything over to an outsider?”
“Daisy isn’t an outsider. She cared for Mum’s niece when she was ill.”
“Cared for her!” Lydia scoffed. “A few months of handing out pills. And what were we doing for thirty years? Nothing?”
Nina stayed silent. Both sisters knew the injustice of it, but the courts had ruled. The house was Daisy’s now—a distant cousin who’d appeared only in their lives at the end.
A knock at the door broke the heavy silence.
“I’ll get it,” Nina said.
Voices murmured in the hallway before their niece, Olivia—daughter of their late brother—stepped into the kitchen.
“Hello, Aunt Lyd, Aunt Nina,” she said, kissing their cheeks. “How are you?”
“Getting by,” Lydia replied. “And you? How’s work?”
“Not bad. I’m planning a holiday by the seaside. Actually, I wanted to ask—do you need any money? I could help a little.”
The sisters exchanged glances. Olivia had always been kind, but the offer touched them.
“Thanks, love,” Nina said. “We’re managing for now.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just say. But I came with news. Remember Daisy, who got Grandma’s house?”
Lydia stiffened.
“What about her?”
“She’s selling it! Saw the listing online yesterday. Asking for four hundred thousand.”
“What?!” Lydia shot up from her seat. “She’s selling it?!”
“Yes. Says the house is old, repairs are costly, and she wants a flat in London.”
“She can’t,” Nina whispered. “Mum always said the house should stay in the family.”
“Family?” Lydia gave a bitter laugh. “Some cousin we barely knew gets everything and does as she pleases.”
Olivia shifted awkwardly.
“Aunt Lyd, maybe you could talk to her? See if she’d sell it to you for less?”
“With what money?” Lydia flung up her hands. “My pension’s barely a thousand a month, Nina’s is twelve hundred. Where would we find four hundred thousand?”
“What about a loan?”
“At our age? I’m sixty-eight, Nina’s sixty-four. Who’d lend to us?”
Olivia sighed.
“It’s such a shame. It was a lovely house.”
“Was,” Lydia echoed.
After Olivia left, the sisters sat in silence as the sunset painted the kitchen gold.
“You know what?” Lydia said suddenly. “I’m going to see her. Daisy.”
“Why?” Nina frowned.
“To talk. Maybe she’ll find a conscience.”
“Lyd, don’t. You’ll only upset yourself.”
“What have I got to lose? The house isn’t mine anyway.”
The next morning, Lydia put on her best dress and walked the two streets to her childhood home. Every step felt heavier than the last.
The house was a wreck. The fence sagged, the gate creaked, and weeds choked the garden. Lydia winced, remembering how pristine it had been under her mother’s care.
She knocked. Daisy—a stout woman in her forties with a pinched face—opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognising Lydia. “What do you want?”
“Hello, Daisy. May I speak with you?”
“About what?”
“Please, let’s talk inside.”
Reluctantly, Daisy let her in. The hallway reeked of damp and dirty dishes. Lydia’s heart ached at the sight of the peeling walls.
“Kitchen,” Daisy muttered.
The kitchen was worse—piled with unwashed plates, pots crusted with food, windows patched with tape.
“Sit,” Daisy nodded at a chair. “Make it quick.”
Lydia perched carefully.
“Daisy, I heard you’re selling the house.”
“So?”
“This was our family home. Nina and I grew up here. It means everything to us.”
“And?”
“Could we buy it from you? We haven’t much, but we could try to arrange payments—”
Daisy laughed, sharp and mocking.
“Payments? From penniless pensioners? Are you mad?”
“Please, just hear us out—”
“Oh, I’ve heard enough!” Daisy snapped. “When your mother was ill, where were you? Who took her to doctors? Bought her medicine?”
“We helped when we could—”
“Helped?” Daisy sneered. “Popping in once a month with biscuits? Who washed her sheets? Sat up with her at night?”
Lydia looked down. There was truth in it. Their mother had needed constant care, and they’d had their own struggles—jobs, families, health.
“I know you did a lot,” Lydia said quietly. “We’re grateful. But the house—”
“The house is mine by law!” Daisy cut in. “Your mother was sound of mind when she wrote that will. Solicitors checked, doctors confirmed. And now you come demanding it back?”
“We’re not demanding. We’re asking—”
“You’re begging!” Daisy stood, pacing. “You think the world owes you something? Where were you when it mattered?”
Lydia rose.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Don’t trouble me again.”
Outside, Lydia paused at the gate, staring at the house. In childhood, it had seemed grand and bright. Her mother had kept it perfect—apple trees in the garden, flowers by the path.
Now it stood neglected, as though mourning better days.
She walked home slowly. Their neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, called out.
“Lydia, love, you look down. What’s happened?”
“Went to see Daisy. Asked her not to sell the house.”
“And?”
“Refused. Says she’ll take the highest offer.”
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head.
“Oh, love. If your mother knew what’s become of her home…”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see? The place is falling apart. Daisy keeps pigs in the shed, never takes the bins out. The neighbours complain.”
“Pigs?” Lydia gasped.
“Aye. Says she’s fattening them for meat. The stink! Your mother would turn in her grave.”
Lydia’s chest tightened. Turning her mother’s home into a pigsty!
“Mrs. Wilkins, are there buyers?”
“Not yet. Who’d pay that price? The place needs tearing down.”
At home, Lydia told Nina everything.
“Pigs?!” Nina cried. “In Mum’s house?”
“And selling it for four hundred thousand.”
“Who’d pay that for a ruin?”
“Mrs. Wilkins said the same.”
The sisters sat in silence, sharing the same bitter thought—none of this was fair.
A week later, Olivia returned—this time with her husband, Daniel.
“Aunt Lyd, Aunt Nina,” she said, sitting at the table. “We’ve been thinking.”
“About what?” Lydia asked warily.
“We want to buy the house.”
“With what money?”
Daniel cleared his throat.
“We’ve savings. Not four hundred thousand, but enough. We could offer two-fifty.”
“And if Daisy refuses?”
“She won’t,” Daniel said firmly. “The house has been listed for months. Buy
